University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


^Slf 


2£>p  tlje  €I)ni6(tma$s  fire 


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littp://www.archive.org/details/byfirechristmasOOcrotrich 


Copyright,  190S,  by  samuel  mcchord  crothkrs 

ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 

Published  Noveviber  iqo8 


"FIFTH   IMPRESSION 


€o  <&.  %.  f  ♦ 

A  CHEERFUL  FIRE-WORSHIPER 


Contentji 


I.  The  Bayonet-^Pokeb 1 

II.  On  Being  a  Doctrinaire     ....    43 

III.  Christmas  and  the  Literature   op 

Disillusion       97 

IV.  The  Ignominy  of  Being  Grown-Up     131 

V.  Christmas  and  the  Spirit  of  Demo- 
cracy        191 


"  Christmas  and  the  Spirit  of  Democracy  "  appeared 
originally  in  Everybody's  Magazine^  the  four  other  essays 
in  the  Atlantic  Monthly.  Acknowledgements  are  due  to 
the  editors  of  these  periodicals  for  permission  to  reprint 
them  here. 


€|)c  2&apottet;|^ofecr 


As  I  sit  by  my  Christmas  fire  I  now 
and  then  give  it  a  poke  with  a  bayo- 
net. It  is  an  old-fashioned  British 
bayonet  which  has  seen  worse  days. 
I  picked  it  up  in  a  Uttle  shop  in  Bir- 
mingham for  two  shillings.  I  was  at- 
tracted to  it  as  I  am  to  all  reformed 
characters.  The  hardened  old  sinner, 
having  had  enough  of  war,  was  a 
candidate  for  a  peaceful  position.  I 
3 


was  glad  to  have  a  hand  in  his  refor- 
mation. 

To  transform  a  sword  into  a  prun- 
ing hook  is  a  matter  for  a  skilled 
smith,  but  to  change  a  bayonet  into 
a  poker  is  within  the  capacity  of  the 
least  mechanical.  All  that  is  needed 
is  to  cause  the  bayonet  to  forsake  the 
murderous  rifle  barrel  and  cleave  to 
a  short  wooden  handle.  Henceforth 
its  function  is  not  to  thrust  itself  into 
the  vitals  of  men,  but  to  encourage 
combustion  on  winter  nights. 

The  bayonet  -  poker  fits  into  the 
philosophy  of  Christmas,  at  least  into 
the  way  I  find  it  easy  to  philosophize. 
It  seems  a  better  symbol  of  what  is 
happening  than  the  harps  of  gold  and 
the  other  beautiful  things  of  which 
the  hymn-writers  sing,  but  which  or- 
4 


dinary  people  have  never  seen.  The 
golden  harps  were  made  for  no  other 
purpose  than  to  produce  celestial  har- 
mony. They  suggest  a  scene  in  which 
peace  and  good-will  come  magically 
and  reign  undisturbed.  Everything 
is  exquisitely  fitted  for  high  uses.  It 
is  not  so  with  the  bayonet  that  was, 
and  the  poker  that  is.  For  it  peace 
and  good-will  are  afterthoughts.  They 
are  not  even  remotely  suggested  in 
its  original  constitution.  And  yet,  for 
all  that,  it  serves  excellently  as  an 
instrument  of  domestic  felicity. 

The  diflBculty  with  the  Christmas 
message  is  not  in  getting  itself  pro- 
claimed, but  in  getting  itself  believed; 
that  is,  in  any  practicable  fashion. 
Every  one  recognizes  the  eminent  de- 
5 


sirability  of  establishing  more  ami- 
cable relations  between  the  members 
of  the  human  family.  But  is  this 
amiable  desire  likely  to  be  fulfilled 
in  this  inherently  bellicose  world  ? 

The  argument  against  Christmas 
has  taken  a  menacingly  scientific 
form.  A  deluge  of  cold  water  in  the 
form  of  unwelcome  facts  has  been 
thrown  upon  our  enthusiasm  for  hu- 
manity. 

"Peace  on  earth/'  it  is  said,  "is 
against  Nature.  It  fiies  in  the  face  of 
the  processes  of  evolution.  You  have 
only  to  look  about  you  to  see  that 
everything  has  been  made  for  a  quite 
different  purpose.  For  ages  Mother 
Nature  has  been  keeping  house  in  her 
own  free-and-easy  fashion,  gradually 
improving  her  family  by  killing  off 
6 


the  weaker  members,  and  giving  them 
as  food  to  the  strong.  It  is  a  plan  that 
has  worked  well  —  for  the  strong. 
When  we  interrogate  Nature  as  to 
the  'reason  why'  of  her  most  marvel- 
ous contrivances,  her  answer  has  a 
grim  simplicity.  We  are  like  Red 
Riding-Hood  when  she  drew  back 
the  bed-curtains  and  saw  the  wolfish 
countenance.  —  '  What  is  your  great 
mouth  made  for,  grandmother?'  — 
'To  eat  you  with,  my  dear.' 

"To  eat,  while  avoiding  the  un- 
pleasant alternative  of  being  eaten, 
is  a  motive  that  goes  far  and  explains 
much.  The  haps  and  mishaps  of  the 
hungry  make  up  natural  history.  The 
eye  of  the  eagle  is  developed  that  it 
may  see  its  prey  from  afar,  its  wings 
are  strong  that  it  may  pounce  upon 
7 


it,  its  beak  and  talons  are  sharpened 
that  it  may  tear  it  in  pieces.  By  right 
of  these  superiorities,  the  eagle  reigns 
as  king  among  birds. 

''The  wings  of  the  eagle,  the  sin- 
ews of  the  tiger,  the  brain  of  the  man, 
are  primarily  weapons.  Each  crea- 
ture seizes  the  one  that  it  finds  at 
hand,  and  uses  it  for  offense  and  de- 
fense. The  weapon  is  improved  by 
use.  The  brain  of  the  man  has  proved 
a  better  weapon  than  beak  or  talons, 
and  so  it  has  come  to  pass  that  man 
is  lord  of  creation.  He  is  able  to  de- 
vour at  will  creatures  who  once  were 
his  rivals. 

''By  using  his  brain,  he  has  sought 
out  many  inventions.  The  sum  total 
of  these  inventions  we  call  by  the  im- 
posing name  Civilization.  It  is  a  mar- 
8 


velously  tempered  weapon,  in  the 
hands  of  the  strong  races.  Alas,  for 
the  backward  peoples  who  fall  be- 
neath it.  One  device  after  another 
has  been  added  for  the  extermination 
of  the  slow-witted. 

''Even  religion  itself  assumes  to 
the  anthropologist  a  sinister  aspect. 
The  strong  nations  have  always  been 
religious.  Their  religion  has  helped 
them  in  their  struggle  for  the  mastery. 
There  are  many  unpleasant  episodes 
in  history.  Spiritual  wealth,  like  ma- 
terial wealth,  is  often  predatory. 

''In  the  Book  of  Judges  there  is  a 
curious  glimpse  into  a  certain  kind  of 
religiousness.  A  man  of  Mt.  Ephraim 
named  Micah  had  engaged  a  young 
Levite  from  Bethlehem- Judah  as  his 
spiritual  adviser.   He  promised  him 


a  modest  salary,  ten  shekels  of  sil- 
ver annually,  and  a  suit  of  clothes, 
and  his  board.  'And  the  Levite  was 
content  to  dwell  with  the  man ;  and 
the  young  man  was  unto  him  as  one 
of  his  sons.  And  Micah  consecrated 
the  Levite,  and  the  young  man  be- 
came his  priest,  and  was  in  the  house 
of  Micah.  Then  said  Micah,  Now 
know  I  that  the  Lord  will  do  me  good, 
seeing  I  have  a  Levite  to  my  priest.' 
''This  pleasant  relation  continued 
till  a  f  reebooting  party  of  Danites  ap- 
peared. They  had  discovered  a  bit  of 
country  where  the  inhabitants  '  dwelt 
in  security,  after  the  manner  of  the  Zi- 
donians,  quiet  and  secure;  for  there 
was  none  in  the  land,  possessing  au- 
thority, that  might  put  them  to  shame 
in  any  thing,  and  they  were  far  from 
10 


the  Zidonians.'  It  was  just  the  oppor- 
tunity for  expansion  which  the  chil- 
dren of  Dan  had  been  waiting  for,  so 
they  marched  merrily  against  the  un- 
protected valley.  On  the  way  they 
seized  Micah's  priest.  'And  they  said 
unto  him,  Hold  thy  peace,  lay  thine 
hand  upon  thy  mouth,  and  go  with  us, 
and  be  to  us  a  father  and  a  priest: 
is  it  better  for  thee  to  be  priest  unto 
the  house  of  one  man,  or  to  be  priest 
unto  a  tribe  and  a  family  in  Israel  ? 
And  the  priest's  heart  was  glad,  and 
he  took  the  ephod,  and  the  teraphim, 
and  the  graven  image,  and  went  in 
the  midst  of  the  people.' 

"  Of  course,  Micah  did  n't  like  it, 

and  called  out,  'Ye  have  taken  away 

my   gods   which    I   made,   and   the 

priest,  and  are  gone  away,  and  what 

11 


have  I  more  ? '  The  Danites  answered 
after  the  manner  of  the  strong,  *  Let 
not  thy  voice  be  heard  among  us, 
lest  angry  fellows  fall  upon  you,  and 
thou  lose  thy  life,  with  the  lives  of  thy 
household.  And  the  children  of  Dan 
went  their  way:  and  when  Micah 
saw  that  they  were  too  strong  for  him, 
he  turned  and  went  back  unto  his 
house/ 

"Is  not  that  the  way  of  the  world  ? 
The  strong  get  what  they  want  and 
the  weak  have  to  make  the  best  of  it. 
Micah,  when  he  turned  back  from  a 
hopeless  conflict,  was  a  philosopher, 
and  the  young  Levite  when  he  went 
forward  was  a  pietist.  Both  the  phi- 
losophy and  the  piety  were  by-pro- 
ducts of  the  activity  of  the  children 
of  Dan.  They  sadly  needed  the  priest 
12 


to  sanctify  the  deeds  of  the  morrow 
when  'they  took  that  which  Micah 
had  made,  and  the  priest  which  he 
had,  and  came  unto  Laish,  unto  a 
people  quiet  and  secure,  and  smote 
them  with  the  edge  of  the  sword;  and 
they  burnt  the  city  with  fire.  And 
there  was  no  deliverer,  because  it  was 
far  from  Zidon,  and  they  had  no 
dealings  with  any  man ;  and  it  was  in 
the  valley  that  lieth  by  Beth-rehob.' 
''The  wild  doings  in  the  little  val- 
ley that  lieth  by  Beth-rehob  have  been 
repeated  endlessly.  Whittier  describes 
the  traditional  alliance  between  Re- 
ligion and  sanguinary  Power:  — 

Feet  red  from  war  fields  trod  the  church  aisles 

holy, 
With   trembling   reverence,    and   the   oppressor 

there 

13 


Kneeling  before  his  priest,  abased  and  lowly. 
Crushed    human    hearts    beneath     the   knee   of 
prayer. 

"When  we  inquire  too  curiously 
about  the  origin  of  the  things  which 
we  hold  most  precious,  we  come  to 
suspect  that  we  are  little  better  than 
the  receivers  of  stolen  goods.  How 
could  it  be  otherwise  with  the  de- 
scendants of  a  long  line  of  freeboot- 
ers ?  How  are  we  to  uphold  the  family 
fortunes  if  we  forsake  the  means  by 
which  they  were  obtained  ?  Are  we 
not  fated  by  our  very  constitutions 
to  continue  a  predatory  life?" 

There  are  lovers  of  peace  and  of 
justice  to  whom  such  considerations 
appeal  with  tragic  force.  They  feel 
that  moral  ideals  have  arisen  only  to 
mock  us,  and  to  put  us  into  hopeless 
14 


antagonism  to  the  world  in  which  we 
live.  In  the  rude  play  of  force,  many 
things  have  been  developed  that  are 
useful  in  our  struggle  for  existence. 
But  one  faculty  has  developed  that  is 
destined  to  be  our  undoing,  —  it  is 
Conscience.  Natural  history  does  not 
give  any  satisfactory  account  of  it.  It 
runs  counter  to  our  other  tendencies. 
It  makes  us  miserable  just  when  we 
are  getting  the  advantage  of  others. 
Now,  getting  the  advantage  of  others 
we  had  understood  was  the  whole  of 
the  exciting  game  of  life.  To  plot  for 
this  has  marvelously  sharpened  hu- 
man wit.  But  Conscience,  just  at  the 
critical  moment,  cries  '*For  shame!" 
It  is  an  awkward  situation.  Not  only 
the  rules  of  the  game,  but  the  game 
itself,  is  called  in  question. 
15 


Clje  25aponet^^ofter 

As  a  consequence,  many  conscien- 
tious persons  lose  all  the  zest  of  living. 
The  existing  world  seems  to  them 
brutal,  its  order,  tyranny;  its  moral- 
ity, organized  selfishness ;  its  accepted 
religion,  a  shallow  conventionality. 
In  such  a  world  as  this,  the  good  man 
stands  like  a  gladiator  who  has  sud- 
denly become  a  Christian.  He  is  over- 
whelmed with  horror  at  the  bloody 
sports,  yet  he  is  forced  into  the  arena 
and  must  fight.  That  is  his  business, 
and  he  cannot  rise  above  it. 

I  cannot,  myself,  take  such  a 
gloomy  view  of  the  interesting  little 
planet  on  which  I  happen  to  find  my- 
self. I  take  great  comfort  in  the 
thought  that  the  world  is  still  unfin- 
ished, and  that  what  we  see  lying 
around  us  is  not  the  completed  pro- 
16 


duct,  but  only  the  raw  material.  And 
this  consolation  rises  into  positive 
cheer  when  I  learn  that  there  is  a 
chance  for  us  to  take  a  hand  in  the 
creative  work.  It  matters  very  little 
at  this  stage  of  the  proceedings 
whether  things  are  good  or  bad.  The 
question  for  us  is,  What  is  the  best 
use  to  which  we  can  put  them  ?  We 
are  not  to  be  bullied  by  facts.  If  we 
don't  like  them  as  they  are,  we  may 
remould  them  nearer  to  our  heart's 
desire.    At  least  we  may  try. 

Here  is  my  bayonet.  A  scientific 
gentleman,  seeing  it  lying  on  my 
hearth,  might  construct  a  very  pretty 
theory  about  its  owner.  A  bayonet 
is  made  to  stab  with.  It  evidently 
implies  a  stabber.  To  this  I  could 
only  answer,  '*My  dear  sir,  do  not 
17 


look  at  the  bayonet,  look  at  me.  Do 
I  strike  you  as  a  person  who  would 
be  likely  to  run  you  through,  just  be- 
cause I  happen  to  have  the  conven- 
iences to  do  it  with  ?  Sit  down  by  the 
fire  and  we  will  talk  it  over,  and  you 
will  see  that  you  have  nothing  to  fear. 
What  the  Birmingham  manufacturer 
designed  this  bit  of  steel  for  was  his 
affair,  not  mine.  When  it  comes  to 
design,  two  can  play  at  that  game. 
What  I  use  this  for,  you  shall  pre- 
sently see.'' 

Now,  here  we  have  the  gist  of  the 
matter.  Most  of  the  gloomy  prognos- 
tications which  distress  us  arise  from 
the  habit  of  attributing  to  the  thing  a 
power  for  good  or  evil  which  belongs 
only  to  the  person.  It  is  one  of  the 
earliest  forms  of  superstition.  The 
18 


anthropologist  calls  it  "fetichism*' 
when  he  finds  it  among  primitive  peo- 
ples. When  the  same  notion  is  pro- 
pounded by  advanced  thinkers,  we 
call  it  "advanced  thought."  We  at- 
tribute to  the  Thing  a  malignant  pur- 
pose and  an  irresistible  potency,  and 
we  crouch  before  it  as  if  it  were  our 
master.  When  the  Thing  is  set  going, 
we  observe  its  direction  with  awe- 
struck resignation,  just  as  people  once 
drew  omens  from  the  flight  of  birds. 
What  are  we  that  we  should  interfere 
with  the  Tendencies  of  Things.? 

The  author  of  "The  Wisdom  of 
Solomon''  gives  a  vivid  picture  of  the 
terror  of  the  Egyptians  when  they 
were  "shut  up  in  their  houses,  the 
prisoners  of  darkness,  and  fettered 
with  the  bonds  of  a  long  night,  they 
19 


lay  there  exiled  from  eternal  provi- 
dence.'' Everything  seemed  to  them 
to  have  a  malign  purpose.  "  Whether 
it  were  a  whistling  wind,  or  a  melodi- 
ous noise  of  birds  among  the  spread- 
ing branches,  or  a  pleasing  fall  of 
water  running  violently,  or  a  terrible 
sound  of  stones  cast  down,  or  a  run- 
ning that  could  not  be  seen  of  skip- 
ping beasts,  or  a  roaring  voice  of  most 
savage  wild  beasts,  or  a  rebounding 
echo  from  the  hollow  mountains ; 
these  things  made  them  swoon  for 
fear."  For,  says  the  author,  "fear  is 
nothing  else  than  a  betraying  of  the 
succours  that  reason  offers." 

We    have    pretty    generally    risen 
above  the  primitive  forms  of  this  su- 
perstition.  We  do  not  fear  that  a  rock 
or  tree  will  go  out  of  its  way  to  harm 
20 


us.  We  are  not  troubled  by  the  sus- 
picion that  some  busybody  of  a  planet 
is  only  waiting  its  chance  to  do  us  an 
ill  turn.  We  are  inclined  to  take  the 
dark  of  the  moon  with  equanimity. 

But  when  it  comes  to  moral  ques- 
tions we  are  still  dominated  by  the 
idea  of  the  fatalistic  power  of  inani- 
mate things.  We  cannot  think  it  pos- 
sible to  be  just  or  good,  not  to  speak 
of  being  cheerful,  without  looking  at 
some  physical  fact  and  saying  hum- 
bly "By  your  leave."  We  personify 
our  tools  and  machines,  and  the  oc- 
cult symbols  of  trade,  and  then  as 
abject  idolaters  we  bow  down  before 
the  work  of  our  own  hands.  We  are 
awe-struck  at  their  power,  and  mag- 
nify the  mystery  of  their  existence. 
We  only  pray  that  they  may  not  turn 
21 


us  out  of  house  and  home,  because 
of  some  blunder  in  our  ritual  observ- 
ance. That  they  will  make  it  very 
uncomfortable  for  us,  we  take  for 
granted.  We  have  resigned  ourselves 
to  that  long  ago.  They  are  so  very 
complicated  that  they  will  make  no 
allowance  for  us,  and  will  not  permit 
us  to  live  simply  as  we  would  like. 
We  are  really  very  plain  people,  and 
easily  flurried  and  worried  by  super- 
fluities. We  could  get  along  very 
nicely  and,  we  are  sure,  quite  health- 
fully, if  it  were  not  for  our  Things. 
They  set  the  pace  for  us,  and  we  have 
to  keep  up. 

We  long  for  peace  on  earth,  but  of 
course  we  can't  have  it.  Look  at  our 
warships  and  our  forts  and  our  great 
guns.  They  are  getting  bigger  every 


€^t  2&apottet#ofeet 

year.  No  sooner  do  we  begin  to  have 
an  amiable  feeling  toward  our  neigh- 
bors than  some  one  invents  a  more  in- 
genious way  by  which  we  may  slaugh- 
ter them.  The  march  of  invention  is 
irresistible,  and  we  are  being  swept 
along  toward  a  great  catastrophe. 

We  should  like  very  much  to  do 
business  according  to  the  Golden 
Rule.  It  strikes  us  as  being  the  only 
decent  method  of  procedure.  We 
have  no  ill  feeling  toward  our  com- 
petitors. We  should  be  pleased  to  see 
them  prosper.  We  have  a  strong  pre- 
ference for  fair  play.  But  of  course 
we  can't  have  it,  because  the  corpo- 
rations, those  impersonal  products  of 
modern  civilization,  won't  allow  it. 
We  must  not  meddle  with  them,  for 
if  we  do  we  might  break  some  of  the 
23 


laws  of  political  economy,  and  in  that 
case  nobody  knows  what  might  hap- 
pen. 

We  have  a  great  desire  for  good 
government.  We  should  be  gratified 
if  we  could  believe  that  the  men  who 
pave  our  streets,  and  build  our  school- 
houses,  and  administer  our  public 
funds,  are  well  qualified  for  their  sev- 
eral positions.  But  we  cannot,  in  a 
democracy,  expect  to  have  expert  serv- 
ice. The  tendency  of  politics  is  to 
develop  a  Machine.  The  Machine  is 
not  constructed  to  serve  us.  Its  pur- 
pose is  simply  to  keep  itself  going. 
When  it  once  begins  to  move,  it  is 
only  prudent  in  us  to  keep  out  of  the 
way.  It  would  be  tragical  to  have  it 
run  over  us. 

So,  in  certain  moods,  we  sit  and 


grumble  over  our  formidable  fetiches. 
Like  all  idolaters,  we  sometimes  turn 
iconoclasts.  In  a  short-lived  fit  of 
anger  we  smash  the  Machine.  Hav- 
ing accomplished  this  feat,  we  feel  a 
little  foolish,  for  we  don't  know  what 
to  do  next. 

Fortunately  for  the  world  there  are 
those  who  are  neither  idolaters  nor 
iconoclasts.  They  do  not  worship 
Things,  nor  fear  them,  nor  despise 
them,  —  they  simply  use  them. 

In  the  Book  of  Baruch  there  is  in- 
serted a  letter  purporting  to  be  from 
Jeremiah  to  the  Hebrew  captives  in 
Babylon.  The  prophet  discourses 
on  the  absurdity  gf  the  worship  of 
inanimate  things,  and  incidentally 
draws  on  his  experience  in  gardening. 
25 


€1)0  25aponefc:^ofeer 

An  idol,  he  says,  is  ''like  to  a  white 
thorn  in  an  orchard,  that  every  bird 
sitteth  upon."  It  is  as  powerless,  he 
says,  to  take  the  initiative  "  as  a  scare- 
crow in  a  garden  of  cucumbers  that 
keepeth  nothing."  In  his  opinion, 
one  wide-awake  man  in  the  cucumber 
patch  is  worth  all  the  scarecrows  that 
were  ever  constructed.  "  Better  there- 
fore is  the  just  man  that  hath  none 
idols." 

What  brave  air  we  breathe  when 
we  join  the  company  of  the  just  men 
who  have  freed  themselves  from  idol- 
atry! Listen  to  Governor  Bradford 
as  he  enumerates  the  threatening  facts 
which  the  Pilgrims  to  New  England 
faced.  He  mentions  all  the  difficulties 
which  they  foresaw,  and  then  adds, 
"It  was  answered  that  all  great  and 
26 


honorable  actions  were  accompanied 
with  great  difficulties,  and  must  be  en- 
terprised  with  answerable  courages/' 

What  fine  spiritual  audacity !  Not 
courage,  if  you  please,  but  courages. 
There  is  much  virtue  in  the  plural.  It 
was  as  much  as  to  say,  ''AH  our  eggs 
are  not  in  one  basket.  We  are  likely 
to  meet  more  than  one  kind  of  danger. 
What  of  it  ?  We  have  more  than  one 
kind  of  courage.  It  is  well  to  be  pre- 
pared for  emergencies." 

It  was  the  same  spirit  which  made 
William  Penn  speak  of  his  colony  on 
the  banks  of  the  Delaware  as  the 
"Holy  Experiment."  In  his  testi- 
mony to  George  Fox,  he  says,  "He 
was  an  original  and  no  man's  copy. 
He  had  not  learned  what  he  said  by 
study.  Nor  were  they  notional  nor 
27 


speculative,  but  sensible  and  practi- 
cal, the  setting  up  of  the  Kingdom  of 
God  in  men's  hearts,  and  the  way 
of  it  was  his  work.  His  authority  was 
inward  and  not  outward,  and  he  got 
it  and  kept  it  by  the  love  of  God.  He 
was  a  divine  and  a  naturalist,  and  all 
of  God  Almighty's  making.'' 

In  the  presence  of  men  of  such 
moral  originality,  ethical  problems 
take  on  a  new  and  exciting  aspect. 
What  is  to  happen  next  ?  You  cannot 
find  out  by  noting  the  trend  of  events. 
A  peep  into  a  resourceful  mind  would 
be  more  to  the  purpose.  That  mind 
perceives  possibilities  beyond  the  ken ' 
of  a  duller  intelligence. 

I  should  like  to  have  some  compe- 
tent person  give  us  a  History  of  Moral 
Progress  as  a  part  of  the  History  of 
28 


Invention.  I  know  there  is  a  distrust 
of  Invention  on  the  part  of  many  good 
people  who  are  so  enamored  of  the 
ideal  of  a  simple  life  that  they  are  sus- 
picious of  civilization.  The  text  from 
Ecclesiastes,  "God  made  man  up- 
right ;  but  they  have  sought  out  many 
inventions,"  has  been  used  to  discour- 
age any  budding  Edisons  of  the  spirit- 
ual realm.  Dear  old  Alexander  Cru- 
den  inserted  in  his  Concordance  a 
delicious  definition  of  invention  as 
here  used:  ''Inventions:  New  ways 
of  making  one's  self  more  wise  and 
happy  than  God  made  us." 

It  is  astonishing  how  many  people 
share  this  fear  that,  if  they  exert  their 
minds  too  much,  they  may  become 
better  than  the  Lord  intended  them 
to  be.  A  new  way  of  being  good,  or 
29 


€l^e  25aponet:^^ofter 

of  doing  good,  terrifies  them.  Never- 
theless moral  progress  follows  the 
same  lines  as  all  other  progress.  First 
there  is  a  conscious  need.  Necessity 
is  the  mother  of  invention.  Then 
comes  the  patient  search  for  the  ways 
and  means  through  which  the  want 
may  be  satisfied.  Ages  may  elapse  be- 
fore an  ideal  may  be  realized.  Num- 
berless attempts  must  be  made,  the 
lessons  of  the  successive  failures  must 
be  learned.  It  is  in  the  ability  to  draw 
the  right  inference  from  failure  that 
inventive  genius  is  seen. 

*'It  would  be  madness  and  incon- 
sistency," said  Lord  Bacon,  ''to  sup- 
pose that  things  which  have  never 
yet  been  performed  can  be  performed 
without  using  some  hitherto  untried 
means."  The  inventor  is  not  dis- 
30 


couraged  by  past  failures,  but  he  is 
careful  not  to  repeat  them  slavishly. 
He  may  be  compelled  to  use  the  same 
elements,  but  he  is  always  trying 
some  new  combination.  If  he  must 
fail  once  more,  he  sees  to  it  that  it 
shall  be  in  a  slightly  different  way. 
He  has  learned  in  twenty  ways  how 
the  thing  cannot  be  done.  This  in- 
formation is  very  useful  to  him,  and 
he  does  not  begrudge  the  labor  by 
which  it  has  been  obtained.  All  this 
is  an  excellent  preparation  for  the 
twenty-first  attempt,  which  may  pos- 
sibly reveal  the  way  it  can  be  done. 
When  thousands  of  good  heads  are 
working  upon  a  problem  in  this  fash- 
ion, something  happens. 

For  several  generations  the  physi- 
cal sciences  have  offered  the  most  in- 
31 


viting  field  for  inventive  genius.  Here 
have  been  seen  the  triumphs  of  the 
experimental  method.  There  are, 
however,  evidences  that  many  of  the 
best  intellects  are  turning  to  the  fasci- 
nating field  of  morals.  Indeed,  the 
very  success  of  physical  research 
makes  this  inevitable. 

When  in  1783  the  brothers  Mont- 
golfier  ascended  a  mile  above  the 
earth  in  a  balloon  there  was  a  thrill 
of  excitement,  as  the  spectators  felt 
that  the  story  of  Daedalus  had  been 
taken  from  the  world  of  romance  into 
the  world  of  fact.  But,  after  all,  the 
invention  went  only  a  little  way  in  the 
direction  of  the  navigation  of  the  air. 
It  is  one  thing  to  float,  and  another 
thing  to  steer  a  craft  toward  a  desired 
haven.  The  balloon  having  been  in- 
32 


vented,  the  next  and  more  difficult 
task  was  to  make  it  dirigible.  It  was 
the  same  problem  that  had  puzzled 
the  inventors  of  primitive  times  who 
had  discovered  that,  by  making  use 
of  a  proper  log,  they  could  be  carried 
from  place  to  place  on  the  water. 
What  the  landing  place  should  be 
was,  however,  a  matter  beyond  their 
control.  They  had  to  trust  to  the  cur- 
rent, which  was  occasionally  favor- 
able to  them.  In  the  first  exhilaration 
over  their  discovery  they  were  doubt- 
less thankful  enough  to  go  down 
stream,  even  when  their  business 
called  them  up  stream.  At  least  they 
had  the  pleasant  sensation  of  getting 
on.  They  were  obeying  the  law  of 
progress.  The  uneasy  radical  who 
wanted   to   progress   in   a   predeter- 


mined  direction  must  have  seemed 
like  a  visionary.  But  the  desire  to  go 
up  stream  and  across  stream  and  be- 
yond sea  persisted,  and  the  log  be- 
came a  boat,  and  paddles  and  oars 
and  rudder  and  sail  and  screw  pro- 
peller were  invented  in  answer  to  the 
ever  increasing  demand. 

But  the  problem  of  the  dirigibility 
of  a  boat,  or  of  a  balloon,  is  simplicity 
itself  compared  with  the  amazing 
complexity  of  the  problems  involved 
in  producing  a  dirigible  civilization. 
It  falls  under  Bacon's  category  of 
"things  which  never  yet  have  been 
performed.''  Heretofore  civilizations 
have  floated  on  the  cosmic  atmos- 
phere. They  have  been  carried  about 
by  mysterious  currents  till  they  could 
float  no  longer.  Then  their  wreck- 
34 


€|)e  25apottet:^^ofter 

age  has  furnished  materials  for  his- 
tory. 

But  all  the  time  human  ingenuity 
has  been  at  work  attacking  the  great 
problem.  Thousands  of  little  inven- 
tions have  been  made,  by  which  we 
gain  temporary  control  of  some  of  the 
processes.  We  are  coming  to  have  a 
consciousness  of  human  society  as  a 
whole,  and  of  the  possibility  of  direct- 
ing its  progress..  It  is  not  enough  to 
satisfy  the  modern  intellect  to  devise 
plans  by  which  we  may  become  more 
rich  or  more  powerful.  We  must  also 
tax  our  ingenuity  to  find  ways  for  the 
equitable  division  of  the  wealth  and 
the  just  use  of  power.  We  are  no 
longer  satisfied  with  increase  in  the 
vast  unwieldy  bulk  of  our  possessions, 
we  eagerly  seek  to  direct  them  to  defi- 
35 


€I)e  95aponet;^^ofter 

nite  ends.  Even  here  in  America  we 
are  beginning  to  feel  that  ''progress*' 
is  not  an  end  in  itself.  Whether  it  is 
desirable  or  not,  depends  on  the  di- 
rection of  it.  Our  glee  over  the  cen- 
sus reports  is  chastened.  We  are  not 
so  certain  that  it  is  a  clear  gain  to 
have  a  million  people  live  where  a 
few  thousand  lived  before.  We  insist 
on  asking,  How  do  they  live.?  Are 
they  happier,  healthier,  wiser.?  As  a 
city  becomes  bigger,  does  it  become 
a  better  place  in  which  to  rear  chil- 
dren ?  If  it  does  not,  must  not  civic 
ambition  seek  to  remedy  the  defect? 
The  author  of  Ecclesiastes  made 
the  gloomy  comment  upon  the  civiliza- 
tion of  his  own  day :  "  I  returned,  and 
saw  under  the  sun,  that  the  race  is  not 
to  the  swift,  nor  the  battle  to  the  strong, 
36 


neither  yet  bread  to  the  wise,  nor  yet 
riches  to  men  of  understanding,  nor 
yet  favour  to  men  of  skill/'  In  so  far  as 
that  is  true  to-day,  things  are  working 
badly.  It  must  be  within  our  power 
to  remedy  such  an  absurd  situation. 
We  have  to  devise  more  eflficient  means 
for  securing  fair  play,  and  for  enforc- 
ing the  rules  of  the  game.  We  want 
to  develop  a  better  breed  of  men.  In 
order  to  do  so,  we  must  make  this  the 
first  consideration.  In  proportion  as 
the  end  is  clearly  conceived  and  ar- 
dently desired,  will  the  effective  means 
be  discovered  and  employed. 

Why  has  the  reign  of  peace  and 
good-will  upon  the  earth  been  so  long 
delayed  ?  We  grow  impatient  to  hear 
the  bells 

37 


€J)e  2&aponet^^oftet 

Ring  out  old  shapes  of  foul  disease; 

Ring  out  the  narrowing  lust  of  gold; 

Ring  out  the  thousand  wars  of  old, 
Ring  in  the  thousand  years  of  peace. 

Ring  in  the  valiant  man  and  free. 
The  larger  heart,  the  kindlier  hand. 

The  answer  must  be  that  ''the  val- 
iant man  and  free"  must,  like  every 
one  else,  leam  his  business  before  he 
can  expect  to  have  any  measure  of 
success.  The  kindlier  hand  must  be 
skilled  by  long  practice  before  it  can 
direct  the  vast  social  mechanism. 

The  Fury  in  Shelley's  ''Prome- 
theus  Unbound"  described  the  pre- 
dicament in  which  the  world  has  long 
found  itself :  — 

The  good  want  power  but  to  weep  barren  tears. 
The  powerful  goodness  want;  worse  need    for 
them. 

38 


The  wise  want  love,  and  those  who  love  want 

wisdom ; 
And  all  best  things  are  thus  confused  to  ill. 

This  is  discouraging  to  the  unim- 
aginative mind,  but  the  very  confu- 
sion is  a  challenge  to  human  intelli- 
gence. Here  are  all  the  materials  for 
a  more  beautiful  world.  All  that  is 
needed  is  to  find  the  proper  combina- 
tion. Goodness  alone  will  not  do  the 
work.  Goodness  grown  strong  and 
wise  by  much  experience  is,  as  the 
man  on  the  street  would  say,  "quite 
a  different  proposition."  Why  not 
try  it  ? 

We  may  not  live  to  see  any  dra- 
matic entrance  of  the  world  upon 
"the  thousand  years  of  peace,"  but 
we  are  living  in  a  time  when  men 
are  rapidly  learning  the  art  of  doing 
39 


€l^e  25aponet#ofter 

peacefully  many  things  which  once 
were  done  with  infinite  strife  and  con- 
fusion. We  live  in  a  time  when  intel- 
ligence is  applied  to  the  work  of  love. 
The  children  of  light  are  less  content 
than  they  once  were  to  be  outranked 
in  sagacity  by  the  children  of  this 
world.  The  result  is  that  many  things 
which  once  were  the  dreams  of  saints 
and  sages  have  come  within  the  field 
of  practical  business  and  practical 
politics.  They  are  a  part  of  the  day's 
work.  A  person  of  active  tempera- 
ment may  prefer  to  live  in  this  stirring 
period,  rather  than  to  have  his  birth 
postponed  to  the  millennium. 

It  is  only  the  incorrigible  doctri- 
naire who  refuses  to  sympathize  with 
the  illogical  processes  by  which  the 
world  is  gradually  being  made  better. 
40 


With  him  it  is  the  millennium  or  no- 
thing. He  will  tolerate  no  indirect  ap- 
proach. He  will  give  no  credit  for 
partial  approximations.  He  insists  on 
holding  every  one  strictly  to  his  first 
fault.  There  shall  be  no  wriggling 
out  of  a  false  position,  no  gradual 
change  in  function,  no  adaptations 
of  old  tools  to  new  uses. 

In  the  next  essay  I  shall  have  some- 
thing to  say  about  this  way  of  looking 
at  things.  It  would  do  no  harm  to 
stir  up  the  doctrinaire  assumptions 
with  the  bayonet-poker. 


n 

<©tt  25ein0  a  SDoctnnatre 


<&n  Seeing  a  2Doctrinatte 

The  question  is  sometimes  asked  by 
those  who  devise  tests  of  literary  taste, 
"  If  you  were  cast  upon  a  desert  island 
and  were  allowed  but  one  book,  what 
book  would  you  choose  ?'' 

If  I  were  in  such  a  predicament  I 

should  say  to  the  pirate  chief  who  was 

about  to  maroon  me,  "My  dear  sir, 

as  this  island  seems,  for  the  time  be- 

45 


<&n  25tmg  a  2DDrtnnaite 

ing,  to  have  been  overlooked  by  Mr. 
Andrew  Carnegie,  I  must  ask  the  loan 
of  a  volume  from  your  private  library. 
And  if  it  is  convenient  for  you  to  al- 
low me  but  one  volume  at  a  time,  I 
pray  that  it  may  be  the  Unabridged 
Dictionary." 

I  should  choose  the  Unabridged 
Dictionary,  not  only  because  it  is  big, 
but  because  it  is  mentally  filling.  One 
has  the  sense  of  rude  plenty  such  as 
one  gets  from  looking  at  the  huge 
wheat  elevators  in  Minneapolis.  Here 
are  the  harvests  of  innumerable  fields 
stored  up  in  little  space.  There  are 
not  only  vast  multitudes  of  words,  but 
each  word  means  something,  and  each 
has  a  history  of  its  own,  and  a  family 
relation  which  it  is  interesting  to  trace. 

But  that  which  I  should  value  most 
46 


<©n  25eing  a  aoortrinaxre 

on  my  desert  island  would  be  the  op- 
portunity of  acquainting  myself  with 
the  fine  distinctions  which  are  made 
between  different  human  qualities.  It 
would  seem  that  the  Aggregate  Mind 
which  made  the  language  is  much 
cleverer  than  we  usually  suppose. 
The  most  minute  differences  are  in- 
fallibly registered  in  tell-tale  words. 
There  are  not  only  words  denoting 
the  obvious  differences  between  the 
good  and  the  bad,  the  false  and  the 
true,  the  beautiful  and  the  ugly,  but 
there  are  words  which  indicate  the  del- 
icate shades  of  goodness  and  truth  and 
beauty  as  they  are  curiously  blended 
with  variable  quantities  of  badness 
and  falseness  and  ugliness.  There  are 
not  only  words  which  tell  what  you 
are,  but  words  which  tell  what  you 
47 


<©n  25emg  a  SDoctrinaire 

think  you  are,  and  what  other  peo- 
ple think  you  are,  and  what  you  think 
they  are  when  you  discover  that  they 
are  thinking  that  you  are  something 
which  you  think  you  are  not. 

In  the  bright  lexicon  of  youth  there 
is  no  such  word  as  "fail,"  but  the  dic- 
tionary makes  up  for  this  deficiency. 
It  is  particularly  rich  in  words  descrip- 
tive of  our  failures.  As  the  procession 
of  the  virtues  passes  by,  there  are 
pseudo-virtues  that  tag  on  like  the 
small  boys  who  follow  the  circus. 
After  Goodness  come  Goodiness  and 
Goody-goodiness ;  we  see  Sanctity 
and  Sanctimoniousness,  Piety  and 
Pietism,  Grandeur  and  Grandiosity, 
Sentiment  and  Sentimentality.  When 
we  try  to  show  off  we  invariably  de- 
ceive ourselves,  but  usually  we  de- 
48 


<&n  25ein0  a  2Doctrmaire 

ceive  nobody  else.  Everybody  knows 
that  we  are  showing  off,  and  if  we  do 
it  well  they  give  us  credit  for  that. 

A  scholar  has  a  considerable  amount 
of  sound  learning,  and  he  is  afraid 
that  his  fellow  citizens  may  not  fully 
appreciate  it.  So  in  his  conversation 
he  allows  his  erudition  to  leak  out,  with 
the  intent  that  the  stranger  should 
say,  "What  a  modest,  learned  man 
he  is,  and  what  a  pleasure  it  is  to 
meet  him."  Only  the  stranger  does 
not  express  himself  in  that  way,  but 
says,  "What  an  admirable  pedant  he 
is,  to  be  sure."  Pedantry  is  a  well- 
recognized  compound,  two  thirds 
sound  learning  and  one  third  harm- 
less vanity. 

Sometimes  on  the  street  you  see  a 
man  whom  you  take  for  an  old  ac- 
49 


(©n  2&ein0  a  fiDoctrmaite 

quaintance.  You  approach  with  out- 
stretched hand  and  expectant  coun- 
tenance, but  his  stony  glare  of  non- 
recognition  gives  you  pause.  The 
fact  that  he  does  not  know  you  gives 
you  time  to  perceive  that  you  do  not 
know  him  and  have  never  seen  him 
before.  A  superficial  resemblance  has 
deceived  you.  In  the  dictionary  you 
may  find  many  instances  of  such  mis- 
takes in  the  moral  realm. 

One  of  the  most  common  of  these 
mistakes  in  identity  is  the  confusion 
of  the  Idealist  and  the  Doctrinaire. 
An  idealist  is  defined  as  "one  who 
pursues  and  dwells  upon  the  ideal,  a 
seeker  after  the  highest  beauty  and 
good."  A  doctrinaire  may  do  this  also, 
but  he  is  differentiated  as  "one  who 
theorizes  without  suflBcient  regard  for 
50 


<©n  25eing  a  2Doctrinaite 

practical  considerations,  one  who  un- 
dertakes to  explain  things  by  a  nar- 
row theory  or  group  of  theories." 

The  Idealist  is  the  kind  of  man  we 
need.  He  is  not  satisfied  with  things 
as  they  are.   He  is  one 

Whose  soul  sees  the  perfect 
Which  his  eyes  seek  in  vain. 

If  a  more  perfect  society  is  to  come, 
it  must  be  through  the  efforts  of  per- 
sons capable  of  such  visions.  Our 
schools,  churches,  and  all  the  institu- 
tions of  a  higher  civilization  have  as 
their  chief  aim  the  production  of  just 
such  personalities.  But  why  are  they 
not  more  successful  ?  What  becomes 
of  the  thousands  of  young  idealists 
who  each  year  set  forth  on  the  quest 
for  the  highest  beauty  and  truth  ? 
Why  do  they  tire  so  soon  of  the  quest 
51 


<&n  25em0  a  2DDrtrmaire 

and  sink  into  the  ranks  of  the  spirit- 
ually unemployed. 

The  answer  is  that  many  persons 
who  set  out  to  be  idealists  end  by  be- 
coming doctrinaires.  They  identify 
the  highest  beauty  and  truth  with 
their  own  theories.  After  that  they 
make  no  further  excursions  into  the 
unexplored  regions  of  reality,  for  fear 
that  they  may  discover  their  identifi- 
cation to  have  been  incomplete. 

The  Doctrinaire  is  like  a  mason 
who  has  mixed  his  cement  before  he 
is  ready  to  use  it.  When  he  is  ready 
the  cement  has  set,  and  he  can't  use 
it.  It  sticks  together,  but  it  won't 
stick  to  anything  else.  George  Eliot 
describes  such  a  predicament  in  her 
sketch  of  the  Reverend  Amos  Bar- 
ton. Mr.  Barton's  plans,  she  says, 
52 


#n  25eing  a  aDoctrinaiire 

were,  like  his  sermons,  "admirably 
well  conceived,  had  the  state  of  the 
case  been  otherwise." 

By  eliminating  the  "state  of  the 
case,"  the  Doctrinaire  is  enabled  to 
live  the  simple  life  —  intellectually 
and  ethically.  The  trouble  is  that  it  is 
too  simple.  To  his  mind  the  question, 
"Is  it  true  ?''  is  never  a  disturbing  one, 
nor  does  it  lead  to  a  troublesome  in- 
vestigation of  matters  of  fact.  His 
definition  of  truth  has  the  virtue  of 
perfect  simplicity,  —  "A  truth  is  that 
which  has  got  itself  believed  by  me." 
His  thoughts  form  an  exclusive  club, 
and  when  a  new  idea  applies  for 
admission  it  is  placed  on  the  waiting 
list.  A  single  black-ball  from  an  old 
member  is  suflBcient  permanently  to 
exclude  it.  When  an  idea  is  once  in, 
53 


<©n  25em0  a  SDoctrinaire 

it  has  a  very  pleasant  time  of  it.  All 
the  opinions  it  meets  with  are  club- 
able,  and  on  good  terms  with  one  an- 
other. Whether  any  of  them  are  re- 
lated to  any  reality  outside  their  own 
little  circle  would  be  a  question  that 
it  would  be  impolite  to  ask.  It  would 
be  like  asking  a  correctly  attired 
member  who  was  punctilious  in  pay- 
ing his  club  dues,  ^  whether  he  had 
also  paid  his  tailor.  To  the  Doctri- 
naire there  seems  something  sordid 
and  vulgar  in  the  anxiety  to  make 
the  two  ends  —  theory  and  practice 
— meet.  It  seems  to  indicate  that  one 
is  not  intellectually  in  comfortable 
circumstances. 

The  Doctrinaire,  when  he  has  con- 
ceived certain  ideals,  is  not  content 
that  they  should  be  cast  upon  the 
54 


#n  25emg  a  2Doctrittaire 

actual  world,  to  take  their  chances 
in  the  rough-and-tumble  struggle  for 
existence,  proving  their  right  to  the 
kingdom  by  actually  conquering  it, 
inch  by  inch.  He  cannot  endure  such 
tedious  delays.  He  must  have  the  sat- 
isfaction of  seeing  his  ideals  instantly 
realized.  The  ideal  life  must  be  lived 
under  ideal  conditions.  And  so,  for 
his  private  satisfaction,  he  creates  for 
himself  such  a  world  into  which  he 
retires. 

It  is  a  world  of  natural  law,  as  he 
understands  natural  law.  There  are 
no  exceptions,  no  deviation  from  gen- 
eral principles,  no  shadings  off,  no 
fascinating  obscurities,  no  rude  practi- 
cal jokes,  no  undignified  by-play,  no 
"east  windows  of  divine  surprise," 
no  dark  unfathomable  abysses.  He 
55 


(&n  25eing  a  2Dorttmaire 

would  not  allow  such  things.  In  his 
world  the  unexpected  never  happens. 
The  endless  chain  of  causation  runs 
smoothly.  Every  event  has  a  cause, 
and  the  cause  is  never  tangled  up 
with  the  effect,  so  that  you  cannot  tell 
where  one  begins  and  the  other  ends. 
He  is  intellectually  tidy,  and  every- 
thing must  be  in  its  place.  If  some- 
thing turns  up  for  which  he  cannot  find 
a  place,  he  sends  it  to  the  junk  shop. 
When  the  Doctrinaire  descends 
from  the  homogeneous  world  which 
he  has  constructed,  into  the  actual 
world  which,  in  the  attempt  to  get 
itself  made,  is  becoming  more  amaz- 
ingly heterogeneous  all  the  time,  he  is 
in  high  dudgeon.  The  existence  of 
these  varied  contradictorinesses  seems 
to  him  a  personal  aflFront. 
56 


<©n  25ein0  a  flDoctrinaire 

It  is  as  if  a  person  had  lived  in  a 
natural  history  museum,  where  every 
stuffed  animal  knew  his  place,  and  had 
his  scientific  name  painted  on  the  glass 
case.  He  is  suddenly  dropped  into  a 
tropical  jungle  where  the  animals  act 
quite  differently.  The  tigers  won't 
"stay  put,"  and  are  liable  to  turn  up 
just  when  he  does  n't  want  to  see  them. 

I  should  not  object  to  his  unpre- 
paredness  for  the  actual  state  of  things 
if  the  Doctrinaire  did  not  assume  the 
airs  of  a  superior  person.  He  lays  all 
the  blame  for  the  discrepancy  be- 
tween himself  and  the  universe  on  the 
universe.  He  has  the  right  key,  only 
the  miserable  locks  won't  fit  it.  Hav- 
ing formed  a  very  clear  conception  of 
the  best  possible  world,  he  looks  down 
patronizingly  upon  the  commonplace 
57 


<©n  2&eing  a  2Doctrinatre 

people  who  are  trying  to  make  the  best 
out  of  this  imperfect  world.  Having 
large  possessions  in  Utopia,  he  lives 
the  care-free  life  of  an  absentee  land- 
lord. His  praise  is  always  for  the  dead, 
or  for  the  yet  unborn ;  when  he  looks 
on  his  contemporaries  he  takes  a 
gloomy  view.  That  any  great  man 
should  be  now  alive,  he  considers  a 
preposterous  assumption.  He  treats 
greatness  as  if  it  were  a  disease  to  be 
determined  only  by  post-mortem  ex- 
amination. 

One  of  the  earliest  satires  on  the 
character  of  the  Doctrinaire  is  to  be 
found  in  the  Book  of  Jonah.  Jonah 
was  a  prophet  by  profession.  He  re- 
ceived a  call  to  preach  in  the  city  of 
Nineveh,  which  he  accepted  after  some 
hesitation.  He  denounced  civic  cor- 
58 


<©n  95eing  a  2Doctrmaite 

ruption  and  declared  that  in  forty  days 
the  city  would  be  destroyed.  Having 
performed  this  professional  duty,  Jo- 
nah felt  that  there  was  nothing  left 
for  him  but  to  await  with  pious  resig- 
nation the  fulfillment  of  his  prophecy. 
But  in  this  case  the  unexpected  hap- 
pened, the  city  repented  and  was 
saved.  This  was  gall  and  wormwood 
to  Jonah.  His  orderly  mind  was  of- 
fended by  the  disarrangement  of  his 
schedule.  What  was  the  use  of  being 
a  prophet  if  things  did  not  turn  out 
as  he  said.^  So  we  are  told  "it  dis- 
pleased Jonah  exceedingly,  and  he 
was  angry."  Still  he  clung  to  the  hope 
that,  in  the  end,  things  might  turn  out 
badly  enough  to  justify  his  public  ut- 
terances. "Then  Jonah  went  out  of 
the  city,  and  sat  on  the  east  side  of 
59 


<©n  25einff  a  aDoctrmaire 

the  city,  and  there  made  him  a  booth, 
and  sat  under  it  in  the  shadow,  till 
he  might  see  what  would  become  of 
the  city." 

Poor  grumpy  old  Jonah !  Have  we 
not  sat  under  his  preaching,  and  read 
his  editorials,  and  pondered  his  books, 
full  of  solemn  warnings  of  what  will 
happen  to  us  if  we  do  not  mend  our 
ways  ?  We  have  been  deeply  impressed, 
and  in  a  great  many  respects  we  have 
mended  our  ways,  and  things  have  be- 
gun to  go  better.  But  Jonah  takes  no 
heed  of  our  repentance.  He  is  only 
thinking  of  those  prophecies  of  his. 
Just  in  proportion  as  things  begin  to 
look  up  morally,  he  gets  low  in  his 
mind  and  begins  to  despair  of  the  Re- 
public. 

The  trouble  with  Jonah  is  that  he 
60 


0n  25eing  a  2Dortrittaire 

can  see  but  one  thing  at  a  time,  and 
see  that  only  in  one  way.  He  cannot 
be  made  to  appreciate  the  fact  that 
"the  world  is  full  of  a  number  of 
things,"  and  that  some  of  them  are 
not  half  bad.  When  he  sees  a  dan- 
gerous tendency  he  thinks  that  it  will 
necessarily  go  on  to  its  logical  con- 
clusion. He  forgets  that  there  is  such 
a  thing  as  the  logic  of  events,  which 
is  different  from  the  logical  processes 
of  a  person  who  sits  outside  and  prog- 
nosticates. There  is  one  tendency 
which  all  tendencies  have  in  common, 
that  is,  to  develop  counter  tendencies. 
There  is,  for  example,  a  tendency  on 
the  part  of  the  gypsy-moth  caterpillar 
to  destroy  utterly  the  forests  of  the 
United  States.  But  were  I  addressing 
a  thoughtful  company  of  these  cater- 
61 


<&n  2&cin0  a  2Doctrmaire 

pillars  I  should  urge  them  to  look 
upon  their  own  future  with  modest 
self-distrust.  However  well  their  pro- 
gramme looks  upon  paper,  it  cannot 
be  carried  out  without  opposition. 
Long  before  the  last  tree  has  been  van- 
quished, the  last  of  the  gypsy  moths 
may  be  fighting  for  its  life  against  the 
enemies  it  has  made. 

The  Doctrinaire  is  very  quick  at 
generalizing.  This  is  greatly  to  his 
credit.  One  of  the  powers  of  the  hu- 
man mind  on  which  we  set  great  store 
is  that  of  entertaining  general  ideas. 
This  is  where  we  think  we  have  the 
advantage  of  the  members  of  the  brute 
creation.  They  have  particular  ex- 
periences which  at  the  time  are  very 
exciting  to  them,  but  they  have  no  ab- 
stract notions,  —  or,  at  least,  no  way 
62 


<&n  25emg  a  2Doctnnaite 

of  expressing  them  to  us.  We  argue 
that  if  they  really  had  these  ideas 
they  would  have  invented  language 
long  ago,  and  by  this  time  would  have 
had  Unabridged  Dictionaries  of  their 
own.  But  we  humans  do  not  have 
to  be  content  with  this  hand-to-mouth 
way  of  thinking  and  feeling.  When 
we  see  a  hundred  things  that  strike 
us  as  being  more  or  less  alike,  we 
squeeze  them  together  into  one  men- 
tal package,  and  give  a  single  name 
to  the  whole  lot.  This  is  a  great  con- 
venience and  enables  us  to  do  our 
thinking  on  a  large  scale.  By  organ- 
izing our  various  impressions  into  a 
union,  and  inducing  them  to  work 
together,  we  are  enabled  to  do  col- 
lective bargaining  with  the  Universe. 
If,  for  example,  I  were  asked  to  tell 
63 


<©n  2&ein0  a  2Dortrinaire 

what  I  think  of  the  individuals  in- 
habiting the  United  States,  I  should 
have  to  give  it  up.  Assuming  a  round 
eighty  million  persons,  all  of  whom 
it  would  be  a  pleasure  to  meet,  there 
must  be,  at  the  lowest  computation, 
seventy-nine  million,  nine  hundred 
and  ninety-nine  thousand,  three  hun- 
dred and  seventy-five  people  of  whose 
characters  I  do  not  know  enough  to 
make  my  opinion  of  any  value.  Of 
the  remaining  fragment  of  the  popu- 
lation, my  knowledge  is  not  so  perfect 
as  I  would  wish.  As  for  the  whole 
eighty  million,  suppose  I  had  to  give 
a  single  thought  to  each  person,  I 
have  not  enough  cogitations  to  go 
around. 

What  we  do  is  to  stop  the  ruinous 
struggle   of  competing  thoughts   by 
M 


<©n  25eing  a  2Doctrinaite 

recognizing  a  community  of  interests 
and  forming  a  merger,  under  the  col- 
lective term  "American."  Then  all 
difficulties  are  minimized-  Almost 
all  our  theorizing  about  human  affairs 
is  carried  on  by  means  of  these  sym- 
bols. Millions  of  diflferent  personali- 
ties are  merged  in  one  mental  pic- 
ture. We  talk  of  a  class  even  more 
readily  than  we  talk  of  an  individual. 
This  is  all  very  well  so  long  as  we 
do  not  take  these  generalizations  too 
seriously.  The  mistake  of  the  Doc- 
trinaire lies  not  in  classifying  people, 
but  in  treating  an  individual  as  if  he 
could  belong  to  only  one  class  at  a 
time.  The  fact  is  that  each  one  of  us 
belongs  to  a  thousand  classes.  There 
are  a  great  many  ways  of  classifying 
human  beings,  and  as  in  the  case  of 
65 


<&n  25emg  a  2Doctrmaire 

the  construction  of  tribal  lays,  "every 
single  one  of  them  is  right,"  as  far  as 
it  goes.  You  may  classify  people  ac- 
cording to  race,  color,  previous  con- 
dition of  servitude,  height,  weight, 
shape  of  their  skulls,  amount  of  their 
incomes,  or  their  ability  to  write 
Latin  verse.  You  may  inquire  whether 
they  belong  to  the  class  that  goes  to 
church  on  Sunday,  whether  they  are 
vaccinationists  or  anti  -  vaccination- 
ists, whether  they  like  problem  plays, 
whether  they  are  able  to  read  a  short 
passage  from  the  Constitution  of  the 
United  States,  whether  they  have  dys- 
pepsia or  nervous  prostration  or  only 
think  they  have;  or,  if  you  will,  you 
may  make  one  sweeping  division  be- 
tween the  sheep  and  the  goats,  and 
divide  mankind  according  to  location, 
66 


<^n  25eing  a  2D0cttmaire 

as  did  the  good  Boston  lady  who  was 
accustomed  to  speak  of  those  who 
lived  out  of  sight  of  the  Massachu- 
setts State  House  as  ''New  Yorkers 
and  that  kind  of  people." 

Such  divisions  do  no  harm  so  long 
as  you  make  enough  of  them.  Those 
who  are  classed  with  the  goats  on  one 
test  question  will  ti^rn  up  among  the 
sheep  when  you  change  the  subject. 
Your  neighbor  is  a  wild  radical  in 
theology,  and  you  look  upon  him  as  a 
dangerous  character.  Try  him  on  the 
tariff,  and  you  find  him  conservative 
to  a  fault. 

I  have  listened,  of  a  Monday  morn- 
ing, to  an  essay  in  a  ministers'  meet- 
ing on  the  problem  of  the  "Un- 
churched." The  picture  presented 
to  the  imagination  was  a  painful  one. 
67 


<©n  25emg  a  2Doctrittaire 

In  the  discussion  that  followed,  the 
class  of  the  Unchurched  was  not 
clearly  differentiated  from  the  other 
unfortunate  class  of  the  Unwashed. 
In  the  evening  I  attended  a  lecture 
by  a  learned  professor  who,  as  I  hap- 
pened to  know,  was  not  as  regular  in 
church  attendance  as  he  should  be. 
As  I  listened  to  him  I  said  to  myself, 
"Who  would  have  suspected  that  he 
is  one  of  the  Unchurched  ?" 

Fortunately,  all  the  disabilities  per- 
taining to  the  Unwashed  and  Un- 
churched and  Uncultivated  and  Un- 
vaccinated  and  Unskilled  and  Un- 
baptized  and  Unemployed  do  not 
necessarily  rest  upon  the  same  per- 
son. Usually  there  are  palliating 
circumstances  and  compensating  ad- 
vantages that  are  to  be  taken  into 
68 


<©n  2&eitt0  a  2Doctrinaire 

account.  In  a  free  country  there  is  a 
career  for  all  sorts  of  talent,  and  if  one 
fails  in  one  direction  he  may  reach 
great  dignity  in  another.  I  may  be  a 
mere  nobody,  so  far  as  having  had 
ancestors  in  the  Colonial  Wars  is  con- 
cerned, and  yet  I  may  be  high  up  in 
the  Knights  of  Pythias.  A  good  lady 
who  goes  to  the  art  class  is  able  to 
talk  of  Botticelli.  But  she  has  no  right 
to  look  down  upon  her  husband  as  an 
inferior  creature  because  he  supposes 
that  Botticelli  is  one  of  Mr.  Heinz's 
fifty-seven  kinds  of  pickles.  He  may 
know  some  things  which  she  does  not, 
and  they  may  be  fully  as  important. 
The  great  abuse  of  the  generalizing 
faculty  comes  in  the  arraying  class 
against  class.  Among  the  University 
Statutes  of  Oxford  in  the  Middle  Ages 
69 


<©n  25emg  a  SDortrmaire 

was  one  directed  against  this  evil. 
Dire  academic  punishments  were 
threatened  to  students  who  made 
"odious  comparisons  of  country  to 
country,  nobility  to  ignobility,  Faculty 
to  Faculty."  I  sympathize  deeply 
with  rules  against  such  "unhonest 
garrulities."  It  is  a  pity  that  they 
cannot  be  enforced. 

The  mischief  comes  in  reducing  all 
differences  to  the  categories  of  the 
Inferior  and  Superior.  The  fallacy  of 
such  division  appears  when  we  ask, 
Superior  in  what  ?  Inferior  in  what  ? 
Anybody  can  be  a  superior  person  if 
he  can  only  choose  his  ground  and 
stick  to  it.  That  is  the  trick  that  royal 
personages  have  understood.  It  is 
etiquette  for  kings  to  lead  the  con- 
versation always.  One  must  be  a  very 
70 


<&n  25eittg  a  2Doctrinaire 

stupid  person  not  to  shine  under  such 
circumstances. 

Suppose  you  have  to  give  an  audi- 
ence to  a  distinguished  archaeologist 
who  has  spent  his  Hfe  in  Babylonian 
excavations.  Fifteen  minutes  before 
his  arrival  you  take  up  his  book  and 
glance  through  it  till  you  find  an  easy 
page  that  you  can  understand.  You 
master  page  142.  Here  you  are  se- 
cure. You  pour  into  the  astonished 
ear  of  your  guest  your  views  upon  the 
subject.  Such  ripe  erudition  in  one 
whose  chief  interests  lie  elsewhere 
seems  to  him  almost  superhuman. 
Your  views  on  page  142  are  so  sound 
that  he  longs  to  continue  the  conver- 
sation into  what  had  before  seemed 
the  more  important  matter  contained 
in  page  143.  But  etiquette  forbids. 
71 


#n  25ring  a  2Doctrmaire 

It  is  your  royal  prerogative  to  confine 
yourself  to  the  safe  precincts  of  page 
142,  and  you  leave  it  to  his  imagina- 
tion to  conceive  the  wisdom  which 
might  have  been  given  to  the  world 
had  it  been  your  pleasure  to  expound 
the  whole  subject  of  archaeology. 

I  had  myself,  in  a  very  humble  way, 
an  experience  of  this  kind.  In  a  do- 
mestic crisis  it  was  necessary  to  pla- 
cate a  newly  arrived  and  apparently 
homesick  cook.  I  am  unskilled  in 
diplomacy,  but  it  was  a  case  where  the 
comfort  of  an  innocent  family  de- 
pended on  diplomatic  action .  I  learned 
that  the  young  woman  came  from 
Prince  Edward  Island.  Up  to  that 
moment  I  confess  that  Prince  Edward 
Island  had  been  a  mere  geographical 
expression.  All  my  ideas  about  it 
72 


#tt  25ein0  a  2Doctrinatre 

were  wrong,  I  having  mixed  it  up 
with  Cape  Breton,  which  as  I  now 
know  is  quite  diflFerent.  But  instantly 
Prince  Edward  Island  became  a  mat- 
ter of  intense  interest.  Our  daily 
bread  was  dependent  on  it.  I  entered 
my  study  and  with  atlas  and  encyclo- 
paedia sought  to  atone  for  the  negli- 
gence of  years.  I  learned  how  Prince 
Edward  Island  lay  in  relation  to  Nova 
Scotia,  what  were  its  principal  towns, 
its  climate,  its  railroad  and  steam- 
boat connections,  and  acquired  enough 
miscellaneous  information  to  adorn 
a  five-minutes  personally  conducted 
conversation.  Thus  freshly  furnished 
forth,  I  adventured  into  the  kitchen. 
Did  she  take  the  boat  from  George- 
town to  Pictou  ?  She  did.  Is  n't  it 
too  bad  that  the  strait  is  sometimes 
73 


4^n  a&eing  a  2DDrtrinaire 

frozen  over  in  winter?  It  is.  Some 
people  cross  to  New  Brunswick  on  ice 
boats  from  Cape  Traverse ;  that  must 
be  exciting  and  rather  cold.  She 
thought  so  too.  Did  she  come  from 
Charlottetown  ?  No.  Out  Tignish 
way  ?  Yes ;  halfway  from  Charlotte- 
town  to  Tignish.  Queen's  County  ? 
Good  apple  country  ?  Yes,  she  never 
saw  such  good  apples  as  they  raise  in 
Queen's  County.  When  I  volunteered 
the  opinion  that  the  weather  on  Prince 
Edward  Island  is  fine  but  changeable, 
I  was  received  on  the  footing  of  an 
old  inhabitant. 

I  did  not  find  it  necessary  to  go  to 
the  limits  of  my  knowledge.  I  had 
still  several  reserve  facts,  classified  in 
the  Encyclopaedia  under  the  heads. 
Geology,  Administration,  and  Fi- 
74 


<&n  25cxn0:  a  2Dortnnaite 

nance.  I  had  established  my  position 
as  a  superior  person  with  an  intuitive 
knowledge  of  Prince  Edward  Island. 
If  the  Encyclopaedia  itself  had  walked 
into  the  kitchen  arm  in  arm  with  the 
Classical  Dictionary,  she  could  not 
have  been  more  impressed.  At  least, 
that  is  the  way  I  like  to  think  she  felt. 
It  is  the  way  I  feel  under  similar  cir- 
cumstances. 

One  watches  the  Superior  Person 
leading  a  conversation  with  the  ad- 
miration due  to  Browning's  Herve 
Riel,  when, 

As  its  inch  of  way  were  the  wide  sea's  profound, 
he  steered  the  ship  in  the  narrow  chan- 
nel. It  is  well,  however,  for  one  who 
undertakes  such  feats  to  make  sure 
that  he  really  has  an  inch  of  way ;  it 
is  none  too  much. 
75 


<©n  25eing  a  2Dortrittaire 

In  these  days  it  is  so  easy  for  one 
to  get  a  supply  of  ready-made  know- 
ledge that  it  is  hard  to  keep  from  ap- 
plying it  indiscriminately.  We  make 
incursions  into  our  neighbor's  af- 
fairs and  straighten  them  out  with  a 
ruthless  righteousness  which  is  very 
disconcerting  to  him,  especially  when 
he  has  never  had  the  pleasure  of  our 
acquaintance  till  we  came  to  set  him 
right.  There  is  a  certain  modesty  of 
conscience  which  would  perhaps  be 
more  becoming.  It  comes  only  with 
the  realization  of  practical  diflBculties. 
I  like  the  remark  of  Sir  Fulke  Gre- 
ville  in  his  account  of  his  friend,  Sir 
Philip  Sydney.  Speaking  of  his  liter- 
ary labors  he  says :  "  Since  my  declin- 
ing age  it  is  true  I  had  for  some  years 
more  leisure  to  discover  their  imper- 
76 


<©tt  25emg  a  aDoctrinairc 

fections  than  care  and  industry  to 
mend  them,  finding  in  myself  what 
all  men  complain  of:  that  it  is  more 
easy  to  find  fault,  excuse,  or  tolerate, 
than  to  examine  or  reform/' 

The  idea  that  we  know  what  a  per- 
son ought  to  do,  and  especially  what 
he  ought  not  to  do,  before  we  know 
the  person  or  how  he  is  situated,  is  one 
dear  to  the  mind  of  the  Doctrinaire. 
If  his  mind  did  not  naturally  work 
that  way  he  would  not  be  a  Doctri- 
naire. He  is  always  inclined  to  put 
duty  before  the  pleasure  of  finding 
out  what  it  is  all  about.  In  this  way 
he  becomes  overstocked  with  a  lot  of 
unrelated  duties,  for  which  there  is 
no  home  consumption,  and  which  he 
endeavors  to  dump  on  the  foreign 
market.  This  makes  him  unpopular. 
77 


<&n  25nng  a  Dortrinaire 

I  am  not  one  of  those  who  insist  that 
everybody  should  mind  his  own  busi- 
ness; that  is  too  harsh  a  doctrine. 
One  of  the  rights  and  privileges  of  a 
good  neighbor  is  to  give  neighborly 
advice.  But  there  is  a  corresponding 
right  on  the  part  of  the  advisee,  and 
that  is  to  take  no  more  of  the  advice 
than  he  thinks  is  good  for  him.  There 
is  one  thing  that  a  man  knows  about 
his  own  business  better  than  any  out- 
sider, and  that  is  how  hard  it  is  for 
him  to  do  it.  The  adviser  is  always 
telling  him  how  to  do  it  in  the  finest 
possible  way,  while  he,  poor  fellow, 
knows  that  the  paramount  issue  is 
whether  he  can  do  it  at  all.  It  re- 
quires some  grace  on  the  part  of  a 
person  who  is  doing  the  best  he  can 
under  extremely  difficult  circum- 
78 


<©n  25em0  a  2Dortrmaite 

stances  to  accept  cheerfully  the  re- 
marks of  the  intelligent  critic. 

Persons  who  write  about  the  wild 
animals  they  have  known  are  likely 
to  be  contradicted  by  persons  who 
have  been  acquainted  with  other  wild 
animals,  or  with  the  same  wild  ani- 
mals under  other  circumstances.  How 
much  more  diflScult  is  it  to  give  an 
exhaustive  and  correct  account  of  that 
wonderfully  complex  creature,  man. 

One  whose  business  requires  him 
to  meet  large  numbers  of  persons  who 
are  all  in  the  same  predicament,  is 
in  danger  of  generalizing  from  a  too 
narrow  experience.  The  teacher,  the 
charity- worker,  the  preacher,  the  phy- 
sician, the  man  of  business,  each  has 
his  method  of  professional  classifica- 
tion. Each  is  tempted  to  forget  that 
79 


<&n  S&ring  a  2Doctnnaire 

he  is  not  in  a  position  from  which  he 
can  survey  human  nature  in  its  en- 
tirety. He  only  sees  one  phase  end- 
lessly repeated.  The  dentist,  for  ex- 
ample, has  special  advantages  for 
character  study,  but  he  should  re- 
member that  the  least  heroic  of  his 
patients  has  moments  when  he  is 
more  blithe  and  debonair  than  he  has 
ever  seen  him. 

It  takes  an  unusually  philosophical 
mind  to  make  the  necessary  allow- 
ances for  its  own  limitations.  If  you 
were  to  earn  your  daily  bread  at  the 
Brooklyn  Bridge,  and  your  sole  duty 
was  to  exhort  your  fellow  men  to ''  step 
lively,"  you  would  doubtless  soon  come 
to  divide  mankind  into  three  classes, 
namely:  those  who  step  lively,  those 
who  do  not  step  lively,  and  those  who 
80 


<©tt  25ein0  a  flDoctnnaite 

step*  too  lively.  If  Aristotle  himself 
were  to  cross  the  bridge,  you  would  see 
nothing  in  the  Peripatetic  Philosopher 
but  a  reprehensible  lack  of  agility. 

At  the  railway  terminus  there  is 
an  office  which  bears  the  inscription, 
''Lost  Articles."  In  the  midst  of  the 
busy  traffic  it  stands  as  a  perpetual 
denial  of  the  utilitarian  theory  that  all 
men  are  governed  by  enlightened  self- 
interest.  A  very  considerable  propor- 
tion of  the  traveling  public  can  be 
trusted  regularly  to  forget  its  portable 
property. 

The  gentleman  who  presides  over 
the  lost  articles  has  had  long  experi- 
ence as  an  alienist.  He  is  skeptical 
as  to  the  reality  of  what  is  called  mind. 
So  far  as  his  clients  are  concerned,  it 
is  notable  for  its  absence.  To  be  con- 
81 


<©n  25tm0  a  SDocttmaire 

fronted  day  after  day  by  the  absent- 
minded,  and  to  listen  to  their  monot- 
onous tale  of  woe,  is  disenchanting. 
It  is  difficult  to  observe  all  the  ameni- 
ties of  life  when  one  is  dealing  with 
the  defective  and  delinquent  classes. 
When  first  I  inquired  at  the  Lost 
Article  window,  I  was  received  as  a 
man  and  brother.  There  was  even 
an  attempt  to  show  the  respect  due  to 
one  who  may  have  seen  better  days. 
I  had  the  feeling  that  both  myself  and 
my  lost  article  were  receiving  individ- 
ual attention.  I  left  without  any  sense 
of  humiliation.  But  the  third  time  I 
appeared  I  was  conscious  of  a  change 
in  the  atmosphere.  A  single  glance  at 
the  Restorer  of  Lost  Articles  show^ed 
me  that  I  was  no  longer  in  his  eyes 
a  citizen  who  was  in  temporary  mis- 
82 


<©n  25rin0  a  2Doctrinaire 

fortune.  I  was  classified.  He  recog- 
nized me  as  a  rounder.  ''There  he  is 
again,"  he  said  to  himself.  ''Last 
time  it  was  at  Rockingham  Junction, 
this  time  it  is  probably  on  the  Saugus 
Branch;  but  it  is  the  same  old  story, 
and  the  same  old  umbrella.'' 

What  hurt  my  feelings  was  that 
nothing  I  could  say  would  do  any  good. 
It  would  not  help  matters  to  explain 
that  losing  articles  was  not  my  steady 
occupation,  and  that  I  had  other  in- 
terests in  life.  He  would  only  wearily 
note  the  fact  as  another  indication  of 
my  condition.  "That's  the  way  they 
all  talk.  These  defectives  can  never 
be  made  'to  see  their  conduct  in  its 
true  light.  They  always  explain  their 
misfortunes  by  pretending  that  their 
thoughts  were  on  higher  things." 
83 


^n  2&ett!0  a  Doctrinaire 

The  Doctrinaire  when  he  gets  hold 
of  a  good  thing  never  lets  up  on  it. 
His  favorite  idea  is  produced  on  all 
occasions.  It  may  be  excellent  in  its 
way,  but  he  sings  its  praises  till  we 
turn  against  it  as  we  used  to  do  in 
the  Fourth  Reader  Class,  when  we 
all  with  one  accord  turned  against 
"Teacher's  Pet."  Teacher's  Pet  might 
be  dowered  with  all  the  virtues,  but  we 
of  the  commonalty  would  have  none 
of  them.  We  chose  to  scoff  at  an  ex- 
cellence that  insulted  us. 

The  King  in  '* Hamlet"  remarked, 

"  There  lives  within  the  very  flame  of  love 
A  kind  of  wick,  or  snuflF,  that  will  abate  it; 
And  nothing  is  at  a  like  goodness  still; 
For  goodness,  growing  to  a  pleurisy. 
Dies  in  his  own  too-much." 

The  Doctrinaire  can  never  realize 
the  fatal  nature  of  the  "too-much." 
84 


<&n  2&eittg  a  2Dottrmaire 

If  a  little  does  good,  he  is  sure  that 
more  will  do  better.  He  will  not  allow 
of  any  abatements  or  alleviations ;  we 
must,  if  we  are  to  keep  on  good  terms 
with  him,  be  doing  the  whole  duty  of 
man  all  the  time.  He  will  take  our 
own  most  cherished  principles  and 
turn  them  against  us  in  such  an  offen- 
sive manner  that  we  forget  that  they 
are  ours.  He  argues  on  the  right  side 
with  such  uncompromising  energy 
that  we  have  to  take  the  wrong  side  to 
maintain  our  self-respect. 

If  there  is  one  thing  I  believe  in,  it 
is  fresh  air.  I  like  to  keep  my  window 
open  at  night,  or  better  still  to  sleep 
under  the  stars.  And  I  was  glad  to 
learn  from  the  doctors  that  this  is 
good  for  us.  But  the  other  day  I 
started  on  a  railway  journey  with  pre- 
85 


<©n  25tmg  a  2Docttmaire 

monitory  signs  of  catching  cold.  An 
icy  blast'  blew  upon  me.  I  closed  the 
car  window.  A  lady  instantly  opened 
it.  I  looked  to  see  what  manner  of 
person  she  was.  Was  she  one  who 
could  be  touched  by  an  illogical  ap- 
peal ?  or  was  she  wholly  devoted  to  a 
cause  ? 

It  needed  but  a  glance  to  assure  me 
that  she  was  a  Doctrinaire,  and  cap- 
able only  of  seeing  the  large  public 
side  of  the  question.  What  would  it 
avail  for  me  to  say,  ''Madam,  I  am 
catching  cold,  may  I  close  the  win- 
dow?" 

''Apostate  man!"  she  would  reply, 
"did  I  not  hear  you  on  the  plat- 
form of  the  Anti-Tuberculosis  Asso- 
ciation plead  for  free  and  unlimited 
ventilation  without  waiting  for  the 
86 


<©n  25emg  a  SDoctrmaire 

consent  of  other  nations?  Did  you 
not  appear  as  one  who  stood  four- 
square 'gainst  every  wind  that  blows, 
and  asked  for  more  ?  And  now,  just 
because  you  are  personally  inconven- 
ienced, you  prove  recreant  to  the 
Cause.  Do  you  know  how  many 
cubic  feet  of  fresh  air  are  necessary 
to  this  car?" 

I  could  only  answer  feebly,  "When 
it  comes  to  cubic  feet  I  am  perfectly 
sound.  I  wish  there  were  more  of 
them.  What  troubles  me  is  only  a 
trifling  matter  of  two  linear  inches  on 
the  back  of  my  neck.  Your  general 
principle.  Madam,  is  admirable.  I 
merely  plead  for  a  slight  relaxation 
of  the  rule.  I  ask  only  for  a  mere  pit- 
tance of  warmed-over  air.'' 

Perhaps  the  most  discouraging  thing 
87 


4^n  2&em0  a  2DDrtrmaire 

about  the  Doctrinaire  is  that  while 
he  insists  upon  a  high  ideal,  he  is 
intolerant  of  the  somewhat  tedious 
ways  and  means  by  which  the  ideal  is 
to  be  reached.  With  his  eye  fixed  on 
the  Perfect,  he  makes  no  allowance 
for  the  imperfectness  of  those  who 
are  struggling  toward  it.  There  is  a 
pleasant  passage  in  Hooker's  "Eccle- 
siastical Polity"  in  which  I  find  great 
comfort:  "That  which  the  Gospel  of 
Christ  requireth  is  the  perpetuity  of 
virtuous  duties,  not  the  perpetuity  of 
exercise  or  action,  but  disposition  per- 
petual, and  practise  as  often  as  times 
and  opportunities  require.  Just,  val- 
iant, liberal,  temperate,  and  holy  men, 
are  they  which  can  whensoever  they 
will,  and  will  whensoever  they  ought, 
execute  whatever  their  several  per- 
88 


(©n  25emg  a  2Doctrinaire 

feet  ions  impart.  If  virtues  did  always 
cease  when  they  cease  to  work,  there 
would  be  nothing  more  pernicious  to 
virtue  than  sleep/' 

The  judicious  Hooker  was  never 
more  judicious  than  in  making  this  ob- 
servation. It  is  a  great  relief  to  be  as- 
sured that  in  this  world,  where  there 
are  such  incessant  calls  upon  the 
moral  nature,  it  is  possible  to  be  a  just, 
valiant,  liberal,  temperate,  and  holy 
man,  and  yet  get  a  good  night's  sleep. 

But  your  Doctrinaire  will  not  have 
it  so.  His  hero  retains  his  position 
only  during  good  behavior,  which 
means  behaving  all  the  time  in  an 
obviously  heroic  manner.  It  is  not 
enough  that  he  should  be  to  "true  oc- 
casion true,"  he  must  make  occasions 
to  show  himself  off. 
89 


<©n  25ring  a  2Doctrinaire 

Now  it  happens  that  in  the  actual 
world  it  is  not  possible  for  the  best 
of  men  to  satisfy  all  the  demands  of 
their  fidgety  followers.  In  the  picture 
of  the  battle  between  St.  George  and 
the  dragon,  the  attitude  of  St.  George 
is  all  that  could  be  desired.  There  is 
an  easy  grace  in  the  way  in  which  he 
deals  with  the  dragon  that  is  greatly 
to  his  credit.  There  is  a  mingling  of 
knightly  pride  and  Christian  resigna- 
tion over  his  own  inevitable  victory, 
that  is  charming. 

St.  George  was  fortunate  in  the  mo- 
ment when  he  had  his  picture  taken. 
He  had  the  dragon  just  where  he 
wanted  him.  But  it  is  to  be  feared 
that  if  some  one  had  followed  him 
with  a  kodak,  some  of  the  snap-shots 
might  have  been  less  satisfactory. 
90 


<©n  25eing  a  2Dotttinaire 

Let  us  suppose  a  moment  when  the 
dragon 

Swinges  the  scaly  horror  of  his  folded  tail. 

It  is  a  way  that  dragons  have  when 
they  are  excited.  And  what  if  that 
moment  St.  George  dodged.  Would 
you  criticise  him  harshly  for  such 
an  action  ?  Would  it  not  be  better  to 
take  into  consideration  the  fact  that 
under  such  circumstances  his  first 
duty  might  not  be  to  be  statuesque  ? 
When  in  the  stern  conflict  we  have 
found  a  champion,  I  think  we  owe 
him  some  little  encouragement.  When 
he  is  doing  the  best  he  can  in  a  very 
diflScult  situation,  we  ought  not  to 
blame  him  because  he  does  not  act 
as  he  would  if  there  were  no  diflS- 
culties  at  all.  ''Life,"  said  Marcus 
Aurelius,  ''is  more  like  wrestling  than 
91 


<©n  25emg  a  SDoctrinaite 

dancing."  When  we  get  that  point 
of  view  we  may  see  that  some  atti- 
tudes that  are  not  graceful  may  be 
quite  eflFective.  It  is  a  fine  thing  to 
say,  — 

**  Dare  to  be  a  Daniel, 
Dare  to  stand  alone, 
Dare  to  have  a  purpose  true 
And  dare  to  make  it  known." 

But  if  I  had  been  a  Daniel  and  as 
the  result  of  my  independent  action 
had  been  cast  into  the  den  of  lions,  I 
should  feel  as  if  I  had  done  enough  in 
the  way  of  heroism  for  one  day,  and 
I  should  let  other  people  take  their 
turn.  If  I  found  the  lions  inclined  to 
be  amiable,  I  should  encourage  them 
in  it.  I  should  say,  ''I  beg  your  par- 
don. I  do  not  mean  to  intrude  If 
it 's  the  time  for  your  afternoon  nap, 
don't  pay  any  attention  to  me.  After 
92 


<©n  2&eittff  a  SDoctrinairc 

the  excitement  that  I  Ve  had  where  I 
came  from,  I  should  like  nothing  bet- 
ter than  to  sit  down  by  myself  in  the 
shade  and  have  a  nice  quiet  day  of 
it." 

And  if  the  lions  were  agreeable,  I 
should  be  glad.  I  should  hate  to  have 
at  this  moment  a  bland  Doctrinaire 
look  down  and  say,  "That  was  a 
great  thing  you  did  up  there,  Daniel. 
People  are  wondering  whether  you 
can  keep  it  up.  Your  friends  are  get- 
ting a  mite  impatient.  They  expected 
to  hear  by  this  time  that  there  was 
something  doing  down  there.  Stir 
'em  up,  Daniel !   Stir  'em  up ! '' 

Perhaps  at  this  point  some  fair- 
minded  reader  may  say,  "Is  there 
not  something  to  be  said  in  favor  of 
93 


<©n  2fi>ein0  a  fiDoctrinaire 

the  Doctrinaire  ?  Is  he  not,  after  all, 
a  very  useful  character?  How  could 
any  great  reform  be  pushed  through 
without  his  assistance  ?  " 

Yes,  dear  reader,  a  great  deal  may 
be  said  in  his  favor.  He  is  often  very 
useful.  So  is  a  snow-plough,  in  mid- 
winter, though  I  prefer  a  more  flex- 
ible implement  when  it  comes  to  cul- 
tivating my  early  peas. 

There  is  something  worse  than  to 
be  a  Doctrinaire  who  pursues  an 
ideal  without  regard  to  practical  con- 
sideration; it  is  worse  to  be  a  Philis- 
tine so  immersed  in  practical  con- 
siderations that  he  does  n't  know  an 
ideal  when  he  sees  it.  If  the  choice 
were  between  these  two  I  should  say, 
**Keep  on  being  a  Doctrinaire.  You 
have  chosen  the  better  part/'  But 
94 


#n  25eing  a  SDortrinaite 

fortunately  there  is  a  still  more  excel- 
lent way.  It  is  possible  to  be  a  prac- 
tical idealist  pursuing  the  ideal  with 
full  regard  for  practical  considera- 
tions. There  is  something  better  than 
the  conscience  that  moves  with  un- 
deviating  rectitude  through  a  moral 
vacuum.  It  is  the  conscience  that  is 
related  to  realities.  It  is  a  moral 
force  operating  continuously  on  the 
infinitely  diversified  materials  of  hu- 
man life.  It  feels  its  way  onward. 
It  takes  advantage  of  every  incident, 
with  a  noble  opportunism.  It  is  the 
conscience  that  belongs  to  the  patient, 
keen  -  witted,  open  -  minded,  cheery 
"men  of  good  will,"  who  are  doing 
the  hard  work  of  the  world. 


Ill 

Cfiri^traai^  anti  tl^e  literature  of 
SDiiSiHuiSiott 


€l^n^tmafi  antx  t^t  %xtttatmt  of 
2Dis^iIlussion 

"What  makes  the  book  so  cross ?'* 
asked  the  youngest  Ustener,  who  had 
for  a  few  minutes,  for  lack  of  any- 
thing better  to  do,  been  paying  some 
slight  attention  to  the  reading  that  was 
intended  for  her  elders. 

It  was  a  question  which  we  had 

not  been  bright  enough  to  ask.    We 

had  been  plodding  on  with  the  vague 

idea  that  it  was  a  delightful  book. 

99 


Certainly  the  subject  was  agreeable. 
The  writer  was  taking  us  on  a  ram- 
ble through  the  less  frequented  parts 
of  Italy.  He  had  a  fine  descriptive 
power,  and  made  us  see  the  quiet 
hill  towns,  the  old  walls,  the  simple 
peasants,  the  white  Umbrian  cattle 
in  the  fields.  It  was  just  the  sort  of 
thing  that  should  have  brought  peace 
to  the  soul ;  but  it  did  n't. 

The  author  had  the  trick  of  rubbing 
his  subject  the  wrong  way.  Every- 
thing he  saw  seemed  to  suggest  some- 
thing just  the  opposite.  When  every 
prospect  pleased,  he  took  offense  at 
something  that  was  n't  there.  He 
was  himself  a  favored  man  of  leisure, 
and  could  go  where  he  pleased  and 
stay  as  long  as  he  liked.  Instead  of 
being  content  'with  a  short  Pharisaic 
100 


Hiteratute  of  Diiefillujefiott 

prayer  of  thanksgiving  that  he  was 
not  as  other  men,  he  turned  to  berate 
the  other  men,  who  in  New  York 
were,  at  that  very  moment,  rushing 
up  and  down  the  crowded  streets  in 
the  frantic  haste  to  be  rich.  He  treated 
their  fault  as  his  misfortune.  Indeed, 
it  was  unfortunate  that  the  thought  of 
their  haste  should  spoil  the  serenity 
of  his  contemplation.  His  fine  sense 
for  the  precious  in  art  led  him  to  seek 
the  untrodden  ways.  He  indulged  in 
bitter  gibes  at  the  poor  taste  of  the 
crowd.  In  some  far-away  church,  just 
as  he  was  getting  ready  to  enjoy  a 
beautifully  faded  picture  on  the  wall, 
he  caught  sight  of  a  tourist.  He  was 
only  a  mild-mannered  man  with  an 
apologetic  air,  as  one  who  would  say, 
"  Let  me  look,  too.  I  mean  no  harm/' 
101 


It  was  a  meek  effort  at  apprecia- 
tion, but  to  the  gentleman  who  wrote 
the  book  it  was  an  offense.  Here  was 
a  spy  from  "the  crowd,"  an  emis- 
sary of  "the  modern."  By  and  by 
the  whole  pack  would  be  in  full  cry 
and  the  lovely  solitude  would  be  no 
more.  Then  the  author  wandered 
off  through  the  olives,  where  under 
the  unclouded  Italian  sky  he  could 
see  the  long  line  of  the  Apennines, 
and  there  he  meditated  on  the  insuf- 
ferable smoke  of  SheflSeld  and  Pitts- 
burg. 

The  young  critic  was  right,  the 
author  was  undoubtedly  "cross."  In 
early  childhood  this  sort  of  thing 
is  well  understood,  and  called  by  its 
right  name.  When  a  small  person 
starts  the  day  in  a  contradictory  mood 
102 


literature  of  SDi^iUus^ion 

and  insists  on  taking  everything  by 
the  wrong  handle,  —  he  is  not  allowed 
to  flatter  himself  that  he  is  a  superior 
person  with  a  "temperament,"  or  a 
fine  thinker  with  a  gift  for  righteous 
indignation.  He  is  simply  set  down 
as  cross.  It  is  presumed  that  he  got 
up  the  wrong  way,  and  he  is  advised 
to  try  again  and  see  if  he  cannot  do 
better.  If  he  is  fortunate  enough  to 
be  thrown  into  the  society  of  his 
contemporaries,  he  is  subjected  to 
a  course  of  salutary  discipline.  No 
mercy  is  shown  to  "cross-patch."  He 
cannot  present  his  personal  griev- 
ances to  the  judgment  of  his  peers, 
for  his  peers  refuse  to  listen.  After  a 
while  he  becomes  conscious  that  his 
wrath  defeats  itself,  as  he  hears  the 
derisive  couplet :  — 
103 


**  Johnny  's  mad. 
And  I  am  glad." 

What 's  the  use  of  being  unpleasant 
any  longer  if  it  only  produces  such 
unnatural  gayety  in  others.  At  last, 
as  a  matter  of  self-defense,  he  puts 
on  the  armor  of  good  humor,  which 
alone  is  able  to  protect  him  from  the 
assaults  of  his  adversaries. 

But  when  a  person  has  grown  up 
and  is  able  to  express  himself  in  liter- 
ary language,  he  is  freed  from  these 
wholesome  restraints.  He  may  in- 
dulge in  peevishness  to  his  heart's 
content,  and  it  will  be  received  as  a 
sort  of  esoteric  wisdom.  For  we  are 
simple-minded  creatures,  and  prone 
to  superstition.  It  is  only  a  few  thou- 
sand years  since  the  alphabet  was  in- 
vented, and  the  printing-press  is  still 
104 


%itttAtutt  of  2Di30?iIlus?iott 

more  recent.  There  is  still  a  certain 
Delphic  mystery  about  the  printed 
page  which  imposes  upon  the  imagi- 
nation. When  we  sit  down  with  a 
book,  it  is  hard  to  realize  that  we  are 
only  conversing  with  a  fellow  being 
who  may  know  little  more  about  the 
subject  in  hand  than  we  do,  and  who 
is  attempting  to  convey  to  us  not  only 
his  life-philosophy,  but  also  his  aches 
and  pains,  his  likes  and  dislikes,  and 
the  limitations  of  his  own  experience. 
When  doleful  sounds  come  from  the 
oracle,  we  take  it  for  granted  that 
something  is  the  matter  with  the  uni- 
verse, when  all  that  has  happened  is 
that  one  estimable  gentleman,  on  a 
particular  morning,  was  out  of  sorts 
when  he  took  pen  in  hand. 

At  Christmas  time,  when  we  natur- 
105 


ally  want  to  be  on  good  terms  with 
our  fellow  men,  and  when  our  pur- 
suit of  happiness  takes  the  unexpect- 
edly genial  form  of  plotting  for  their 
happiness,  the  disposition  of  our  fa- 
vorite writers  becomes  a  matter  of 
great  importance  to  us.  A  surly,  sour- 
tempered  person,  taking  advantage  of 
our  confidence,  can  turn  us  against 
our  best  friends.  If  he  has  an  acrid 
wit  he  may  make  us  ashamed  of  our 
highest  enthusiasms.  He  may  so  pic- 
ture human  life  as  to  make  the  mes- 
sage "Peace  on  earth,  good  will  to 
men''  seem  a  mere  mockery. 

I  have  a  friend  who  has  in  him 
the  making  of  a  popular  scientist, 
having  an  easy  flow  of  extempora- 
neous theory,  so  that  he  is  never 
closely  confined  to  his  facts.  One 
106 


3literatute  of  SDiiSillujSiott 

of  his  theories  is  that  pessimism  is 
purely  a  literary  disease,  and  that  it 
can  only  be  conveyed  through  the 
printed  page.  In  having  a  single 
means  of  infection  it  follows  the 
analogy  of  malaria,  which  in  many 
respects  it  resembles.  No  mosquito, 
no  malaria ;  so  no  book,  no  pessimism. 
Of  course  you  must  have  a  partic- 
ular kind  of  mosquito,  and  he  must 
have  got  the  infection  somewhere; 
but  that  is  his  concern,  not  yours. 
The  important  thing  for  you  is  that 
he  is  the  middleman  on  whom  you 
depend  for  the  disease.  In  like  man- 
ner, so  my  friend  asserts,  the  writer 
is  the  middleman  through  whom 
the  public  gets  its  supply  of  pessi- 
mism. 

I  am  not  prepared  to  give  an  un- 
107 


qualified  assent  to  this  theory,  for  I 
have  known  some  people  who  were 
quite  illiterate  who  held  very  gloomy 
views.  At  the  same  time  it  seems  to 
me  there  is  something  in  it. 

When  an  unbookish  individual  is 
in  the  dumps,  he  is  conscious  of  his 
own  misery,  but  he  does  not  attrib- 
ute it  to  all  the  world.  The  evil  is 
narrowly  localized.  He  sees  the  dark 
side  of  things  because  he  is  so  unluck- 
ily placed  that  that  alone  is  visible, 
but  he  is  quite  ready  to  believe  that 
there  is  a  bright  side  somewhere. 

I  remember  several  pleasant  half- 
hours  spent  in  front  of  a  cabin  on 
the  top  of  a  far  western  mountain. 
The  proprietor  of  the  cabin,  who  was 
known  as  "Pat,"  had  dwelt  there  in 
solitary  happiness  until  an  intruder 
108 


%itttatmt  of  2DisfxIIujtftott 

came  and  settled  near  by.  There  was 
incompatibility  of  temper,  and  a  feud 
began.  Henceforth  Pat  had  a  griev- 
ance, and  when  a  sympathetic  trav- 
eler passed  by,  he  would  pour  out  the 
story  of  his  woes ;  for  like  the  wretched 
man  of  old  he  meditated  evil  on  his 
bed  against  his  enemy.  And  yet,  as 
I  have  said,  the  half-hours  spent  in 
listening  to  these  tirades  were  not 
cheerless,  and  no  bad  effects  followed. 
Pat  never  impressed  me  as  being 
inclined  to  misanthropy;  in  fact,  I 
think  he  might  have  been  set  down 
as  one  who  loved  his  fellow  men,  al- 
ways excepting  the  unlucky  individ- 
ual who  lived  next  to  him.  He  never 
imputed  the  sins  of  this  particular 
person  to  Humanity.  There  was  al- 
ways a  sunny  margin  of  good  humor 
109 


around  the  black  object  of  his  hate. 
In  this  respect  Pat  was  angry  and 
sinned  not.  After  listening  to  his  vitu- 
perative eloquence  I  would  ride  on 
in  a  hopeful  frame  of  mind.  I  had 
seen  the  worst  and  was  prepared  for 
something  better.  It  was  too  bad  that 
Pat  and  his  neighbor  did  not  get  on 
better  together.  But  this  was  an  in- 
cident which  did  not  shut  out  the 
fact  that  it  was  a  fine  day,  and  that 
some  uncommonly  nice  people  might 
live  on  the  other  side  of  the  range. 

But  if  Pat  had  possessed  a  high  de- 
gree of  literary  talent,  and  had  writ- 
ten a  book,  I  am  sure  the  impression 
would  have  been  quite  different.  Two 
loveless  souls,  living  on  top  of  a  lonely 
mountain,  with  the  pitiless  stars  shin- 
ing down  on  their  futile  hate !  What 
110 


Ititerature  of  SDijefillujefion 

theme  could  be  more  dreary.  After 
reading  the  first  chapter  I  should  be 
miserable. 

''This/'  I  should  murmur,  ''is Life. 
There  are  two  symbolic  figures,  — Pat 
and  the  Other.  The  artist,  with  re- 
lentless sincerity,  refuses  to  allow  our 
attention  to  be  distracted  by  the  in- 
troduction of  any  characters  uncon- 
nected with  the  sordid  tragedy.  Here 
is  human  nature  stripped  of  all  its 
pleasant  illusions.  What  a  poor  crea- 
ture is  man!" 

Pat  and  his  neighbor,  having  be- 
come characters  in  a  book,  are  taken 
as  symbols  of  humanity,  just  as  the 
scholastic  theologians  argued  in  many 
learned  volumes,  that  Adam  and 
Eve,  being  all  that  there  were  at  the 
time,  should  be  treated  as  "all  man- 
Ill 


kind/'  at  least  for  purposes  of  repro- 
bation. 

The  author  who  is  saddest  when 
he  writes  takes  us  at  a  disadvantage. 
He  may  assert  that  he  is  only  telling 
us  the  truth.  If  it  is  ugly,  that  is  not 
his  fault.  He  pictures  to  us  the  thing 
he  sees,  and  declares  that  if  we  could 
free  ourselves  from  our  sentimental 
preference  for  what  is  pleasing  we 
shoidd  praise  him  for  his  fidelity. 

In  all  this  the  author  is  well  within 
his  rights.  But  if  he  prefers  unmitigated 
gloom  in  his  representations  of  life, 
we  on  our  part  have  the  right  of  not 
taking  him  too  seriously.  Speaking  of 
disillusion,  two  can  play  at  that  game. 
We  must  get  over  our  too  romantic 
attitude  toward  literature.  We  must 
not  exaggerate  the  significance  of 
112 


literature  of  aDiiefillu^ion 

what  is  presented  to  us,  and  treat  that 
which  is  of  necessity  partial  as  if  it 
were  universal.  When  we  are  pre- 
sented with  a  poor  and  shabby  world, 
peopled  only  with  sordid  self-seekers, 
we  need  not  be  unduly  depressed.  We 
take  the  thing  for  what  it  is,  a  frag- 
ment. We  are  not  looking  directly  at 
the  world,  but  only  at  so  much  of  it 
as  has  been  mirrored  in  one  particular 
mind.  The  mirror  is  not  very  large, 
and  there  is  an  obvious  flaw  in  it 
which  more  or  less  distorts  the  image. 
Still  let  us  be  thankful  for  what  is  set 
before  us,  and  make  allowance  for  the 
natural  human  limitations.  In  this 
way  one  can  read  almost  any  sincere 
book,  not  only  with  profit,  but  with  a 
certain  degree  of  pleasure. 

Let  us  remember  that  only  a  very 
113 


small  amount  of  good  literature  falls 
within  Shelley's  definition  of  poetry 
as  "the  record  of  the  best  and  happi- 
est  moments,  of  the  happiest  and  best 
minds.''  For  these  rare  outpourings  of 
joyous,  healthy  life  we  are  duly  thank- 
ful. They  are  to  be  received  as  gifts 
of  the  gods,  but  we  must  not  expect 
too  many  of  them.  Even  the  best 
minds  often  leave  no  record  of  their 
happiest  moments,  while  they  be- 
come garrulous  over  what  displeases 
them.  The  cave  of  AduUam  has  al- 
ways been  the  most  prolific  literary 
centre.  Every  man  who  has  a  griev- 
ance is  fiercely  impelled  to  self-ex- 
pression. He  is  not  content  till  his 
grievance  is  published  to  the  unheed- 
ing world.  And  it  is  well  that  it  is  so. 
We  should  be  in  a  bad  way  if  it  were 
114 


Eitetature  of  aDisfiHuitfion 

not  for  these  inspired  AduUamites 
who  prevent  us  from  resting  in  sloth- 
ful indifference  to  evil. 

Most  writers  of  decided  individual- 
ity are  incited  by  a  more  or  less  icon- 
oclastic impulse.  There  is  an  idol  they 
want  to  smash,  a  conventional  lie 
which  they  want  to  expose.  It  is  the 
same  impulse  which  moves  almost 
every  right-minded  citizen,  once  or 
twice  in  his  life,  to  write  a  letter  of 
protest  to  the  newspaper.  Things  are 
going  wrong  in  his  neighborhood,  and 
he  is  impatient  to  set  them  right. 

There  are  enough  real  grievances, 
and  the  full  expression  of  them  is  a 
public  service.  But  the  trouble  is  that 
any  one  who  develops  a  decided  gift 
in  that  direction  is  in  danger  of  be- 
coming the  victim  of  his  own  talent. 
115 


€f^n^tma^  and  tf>e 

Eloquent  fault  -  finding  becomes  a 
mannerism.  The  original  grievance 
loses  its  sharp  outlines ;  it,  as  it  were, 
passes  from  the  solid  to  the  gaseous 
state.  It  becomes  vast,  pervasive,  at- 
mospheric. It  is  like  the  London  fog, 
enveloping  all  objects,  and  causing 
the  eyes  of  those  who  peer  through  it 
to  smart. 

This  happened,  in  the  last  genera- 
tion, to  Carlyle  and  Ruskin,  and  in 
a  certain  degree  to  Matthew  Arnold. 
Each  had  his  group  of  enthusiastic 
disciples  who  responded  eagerly  to 
their  master's  call.  They  renounced 
shams  or  machine-made  articles  or 
middle-class  Philistinism  as  the  case 
might  be.  They  went  in  for  sincerity, 
or  Turner,  or  "sweetness  and  light," 
with  all  the  ardor  of  youthful  neo- 
116 


Eiteratute  of  JDi^eeillUie^ion 

phytes.  And  it  was  good  for  them. 
But  after  a  while  they  became,  if  not 
exactly  weary  in  well-doing,  at  least 
a  little  weary  of  the  unintermittent 
tirades  against  ill-doing.  They  were 
in  the  plight  of  the  good  Christian  who 
goes  to  church  every  Sunday  only  to 
hear  the  parson  rebuke  the  sins  of  the 
people  who  are  not  there.  The  man 
who  dated  his  moral  awakening  from 
"Sartor  Resartus"  began  to  find  the 
"Latter  Day  Pamphlets"  wear  on  his 
nerves.  It  is  good  to  be  awakened; 
but  one  does  not  care  to  have  the  ris- 
ing bell  rung  in  his  ears  all  day  long. 
One  must  have  a  little  ease,  even  in 
Zion. 

Ruskin  had  a  real  grievance,  and  so 
had  Matthew  Arnold.    It  is  too  bad 
that  so  much  modern  work  is  poorly 
117 


done ;  and  it  is  too  bad  that  the  mid- 
dle-class Englishman  has  a  number 
of  limitations  that  are  quite  obvious 
to  his  candid  friends,  —  and  that  his 
American  cousin  is  no  better. 

But  when  all  this  has  been  granted, 
why  should  one  talk  as  if  everything 
were  going  to  the  dogs  ?  Why  not  put 
a  cheerful  courage  on  as  we  work  for 
better  things  ?  Even  the  Philistine 
has  his  good  points,  and  perhaps  may 
be  led  where  he  cannot  be  driven.  At 
any  rate,  he  is  not  likely  to  be  im- 
proved by  scolding. 

I  am  beginning  to  feel  the  same  way 
even  about  Ibsen.  Time  was  when 
he  had  an  uncanny  power  over  my 
imagination.  He  had  the  wand  of  a 
disenchanter.  Here,  I  said,  is  one 
who  has  the  gift  of  showing  us  the 
118 


Eiteratute  of  aDijafxlluiSiott 

thing  as  it  is.  There  is  not  a  single  one 
of  these  characters  whom  we  have 
not  met.  Their  poor  shifts  at  self- 
deceit  are  painfully  familiar  to  us. 
In  the  company  of  this  keen-eyed 
detective  we  can  follow  human  selfish- 
ness and  cowardice  through  all  their 
disguises.  The  emptiness  of  conven- 
tional respectabilities  and  pieties  and 
the  futility  of  the  spasmodic  attempts 
at  heroism  are  obvious  enough. 

It  was  an  eclipse  of  my  faith  in  hu- 
man nature.  The  eclipse  was  never 
total  because  the  shadow  of  the  book 
could  not  quite  hide  the  thought  of 
various  men  and  women  whom  I  had 
actually  known. 

After  a  while  I  began  to  recover  my 
spirits.  Why  should  I  be  so  depressed  ? 
This  is  a  big  world,  and  there  is  room 
119 


Cl^ri^tma^  anil  tl^t 

in  it  for  many  embodiments  of  good 
and  evil.  There  are  all  sorts  of  people, 
and  the  existence  of  the  bad  is  no  ar- 
gument against  the  existence  of  quite 
another  sort. 

Let  us  take  realism  in  literature  for 
what  it  is  and  no  more.  It  is,  at  best, 
only  a  description  of  an  infinitesimal 
bit  of  reality.  The  more  minutely  ac- 
curate it  is,  the  more  limited  it  must 
be  in  its  field.  You  must  not  expect 
to  get  a  comprehensive  view  through 
a  high-powered  microscope.  The  au- 
thor is  severely  limited,  not  only  by 
his  choice  of  a  subject,  but  by  his  tem- 
perament and  by  his  opportunities  for 
observation.  He  is  doing  us  a  favor 
when  he  focuses  our  attention  upon 
one  special  object  and  makes  us  see  it 
clearly. 

120 


Eiteratute  of  2Dxi0?inu^iott 

It  is  when  the  realistic  writer  turns 
philosopher  and  begins  to  generalize 
that  we  must  be  on  our  guard  against 
him.  He  is  likely  to  use  his  charac- 
ters as  symbols,  and  the  symbolism 
becomes  oppressive.  There  are  some 
businesses  which  ought  not  to  be 
united.  They  hinder  healthful  com- 
petition and  produce  a  hateful  mo- 
nopoly. Thus  in  some  states  the  rail- 
roads that  carried  coal  also  went  into 
the  business  of  coal-mining.  This  has 
been  prohibited  by  law.  It  is  held 
that  the  railroad,  being  a  common 
carrier,  must  not  be  put  into  a  posi- 
tion in  which  it  will  be  tempted  to 
discriminate  in  favor  of  its  own  pro- 
ducts. For  a  similar  reason  it  may  be 
argued  that  it  is  dangerous  to  allow 
the  dramatist  or  novelist  to  furnish 
121 


us  with  a  "philosophy  of  life/'  The 
chances  are  that,  instead  of  impar- 
tially fulfilling  the  duties  of  a  common 
carrier,  he  will  foist  upon  us  his  own 
goods,  and  force  us  to  draw  conclu- 
sions from  the  samples  of  human  na- 
ture he  has  in  stock.  I  should  not  be 
willing  to  accept  a  philosophy  of  life 
even  from  so  accomplished  a  person 
as  Mr.  Bernard  Shaw.  It  is  not  be- 
cause I  doubt  his  cleverness  in  pre- 
senting what  he  sees,  but  because  I 
have  a  suspicion  that  there  are  some 
very  important  things  which  he  does 
not  see,  or  which  do  not  interest  him. 
It  is  really  much  more  satisfactory 
for  each  one  to  gather  his  life  philoso- 
phy from  his  own  experience  rather 
than  from  what  he  reads  out  of  a  book, 
or  from  what  he  sees  on  the  stage. 
U2 


Hiterature  of  SDijeiillujeEion 

''The  harvest  of  a  quiet  eye''  is, 
after  all,  more  satisfying  than  the  oc- 
casional discoveries  of  the  unquiet  eye 
that  seeks  only  the  brilliantly  novel. 

The  inevitable  discrepancy  be- 
tween the  literary  representations  of 
life  and  life  itself  has  been  the  cause 
of  the  ancient  feud  between  teachers 
of  morals  and  writers  of  fiction.  Be- 
cause of  this  Plato  would  banish  poets 
from  his  Republic  and  the  Puritans 
would  exclude  novelists  and  play- 
actors from  their  conventicles.  But  it 
is  curious  to  observe  how  the  char- 
acter of  the  complaints  varies  with 
the  change  in  literary  fashions.  The 
argument  of  serious  persons  against 
works  of  fiction  used  to  be  that  they 
put  too  many  romantic  ideas  into  the 
reader's  head. 

123 


This  was  the  charge  made  by  Mrs. 
Tabitha  Tenney,  one  of  the  first  of 
the  long  line  of  American  novelists. 
She  wrote  a  novel  entitled  ''Female 
Quixotism;  exhibited  in  the  Roman- 
tic Opinions  and  Extravagant  Ad- 
ventures of  Dorcasina  Sheldon."  The 
work  was  addressed  "to  all  Colum- 
bian Young  Ladies  who  read  Novels 
and  Romances."  To  these  young 
ladies  the  solemn  advice  of  Mrs.  Tab- 
itha Tenney  was,  ''Don't." 

Miss  Dorcasina  was  certainly  a 
distressing  example.  "At  the  age  of 
three  years  this  child  had  the  mis- 
fortune to  lose  an  excellent  mother, 
whose  advice  would  have  pointed  out 
to  her  the  plain,  rational  path  of  life, 
and  prevented  her  imagination  from 
being  filled  with  the  airy  delusions 
124 


Hiteratute  of  2DijSiHuiaiiott 

and  visionary  dreams  of  love  and  rap- 
tures, darts,  fire  and  flames,  with 
which  the  indiscreet  writers  of  that 
fascinating  kind  of  books  denomi- 
nated Novels  fill  the  heads  of  artless 
young  girls  to  their  great  injury,  and 
sometimes  to  their  utter  ruin."  Her 
father  allowed  her  to  indulge  her 
fancy,  "never  considering  their  dan- 
gerous tendency  to  a  young,  inexpe- 
rienced female  mind."  The  various 
calamities  into  which  Miss  Dorcas- 
ina  Sheldon  fell  may  be  imagined 
by  those  who  have  not  the  patience 
to  search  for  them  upon  the  printed 
pages.  Her  parting  words  to  those 
who  had  the  guardianship  of  female 
minds  had  great  solemnity.  ''With- 
hold from  their  eyes  the  pernicious 
volumes,  which  while  they  convey 
125 


false  ideas  of  life,  and  inspire  illusory 
expectations,  will  tend  to  keep  them 
ignorant  of  everything  worth  know- 
ing; and  which  if  they  do  not  even- 
tually render  them  miserable  may  at 
least  prevent  them  from  becoming 
respectable.  SuflFer  not  their  imagi- 
nations to  be  filled  with  ideas  of  hap- 
piness, particularly  in  the  connubial 
state,  which  can  never  be  realized." 
If  Mrs.  Tabitha  Tenney  were  to 
come  to  life  in  our  day  I  think  she 
would  hardly  feel  like  warning  the 
Columbian  young  ladies  against  the 
effect  of  works  of  fiction  in  exaggerat- 
ing the  happiness  of  life  in  general  or 
of  the  connubial  state  in  particular. 
The  young  ladies  are  much  more  in 
danger  of  having  their  spirits  de- 
pressed by  the  painstaking  represen- 
126 


Hitetature  of  SDxjefillujSiott 

tation  of  miseries  they  are  never  likely 
to  experience.  The  gloomy  views  of 
average  human  nature  which  once 
were  conscientiously  expounded  by 
'^painful  preachers"  are  now  taken 
up  by  painful  play-wrights  and  story- 
tellers. Under  the  spell  of  powerful 
imaginations  it  is  quite  possible  to  see 
this  world  as  nothing  but  a  vale  of 
tears. 

Happily  ihere  is  always  a  way  of 
escape  for  those  who  are  quick-witted 
enough  to  think  of  it  in  time.  When 
fiction  offers  us  only  arid  actualities, 
we  can  flee  from  it  into  the  romance 
of  real  life. 

I  sympathize  with  a  young  philoso- 
pher of  my  acquaintance.  He  took 
great  joy  in  a  Jack-o-lantern.  The 
ruddy  countenance  of  the  pumpkin 
127 


was  the  very  picture  of  geniality. 
Good-will  gleamed  from  the  round 
eyes,  and  the  mouth  was  one  lumi- 
nous smile.  No  wonder  that  he  asked 
the  privilege  of  taking  it  to  bed  with 
him.  He  shouted  gleefully  when  it 
was  left  on  the  table. 

But  when  he  was  alone  Mr.  Jack- 
o-lantern  assumed  a  more  grimly 
realistic  aspect.  There  was  some- 
thing sinister  in  the  squint  of  his  eye, 
and  uncanny  in  the  way  his  rubicund 
nose  gleamed.  On  entering  the  room 
a  little  while  after  I  found  it  in  dark- 
ness. 

"What  has  become  of  your  Jack- 
o-lantern?" 

''He  was  making  faces  at  me.    I 
looked  at  him  till  I  'most  got  scared, 
so  I  just  got  up  and  blew  him  out." 
128 


Hiteratute  of  SDiiSiHu^xott 

I  commended  my  philosopher  for 
his  good  sense.  It  is  the  way  to  do 
with  Jack-o-lanterns  when  they  be- 
come unmannerly. 

And  I  believe  that  it  is  the  best 
way  to  treat  distressing  works  of  the 
imagination,  though  I  know  that 
their  authors,  who  take  themselves 
solemnly,  will  resent  this  advice. 

We  can't  blow  out  a  reality,  just 
because  it  happens  to  make  us  miser- 
able. We  must  face  it.  It  is  a  part  of 
the  discipline  of  life.  But  a  book  or 
a  play  has  no  such  right  to  domineer 
over  us.  Our  own  imagination  has 
the  first  rights  in  its  own  home.  If 
some  other  person's  imagination  in- 
trudes and  "makes  faces,"  it  is  our 
privilege  to  blow  it  out. 


IV 

€^t  ^fffnominp  of  55eing 
45roton^?aj> 


€l^e  S^enominp  of  25emg 

As  I  have  already  intimated,  my  great- 
est intellectual  privilege  is  my  ac- 
quaintance with  a  philosopher.  He 
is  not  one  of  those  unsocial  philoso- 
phers who  put  their  best  thoughts  into 
books  to  be  kept  in  cold  storage  for 
posterity.  My  Philosopher  is  emi- 
nently social,  and  is  conversational  in 
his  method.  He  belongs  to  the  ancient 
138 


€l)e  S^gnominp  of 

school  of  the  Peripatetics,  and  the 
more  rapidly  he  is  moving  the  more 
satisfactory  is  the  flow  of  his  ideas. 

He  is  a  great  believer  in  the  Socra- 
tic  method.  He  feels  that  a  question  is 
its  own  excuse  for  being.  The  proper 
answer  to  a  question  is  not  a  stupid 
aflSrmation  that  would  close  the  con- 
versation, but  another  question.  The 
questions  follow  one  another  with 
extreme  rapidity.  He  acts  upon  my 
mind  like  an  air  pump.  His  questions 
speedily  exhaust  my  small  stock  of 
acquired  information.  Into  the  men- 
tal vacuum  thus  produced  rush  all 
sorts  of  irrelevant  ideas,  which  we 
proceed  to  share.  In  this  way  there 
comes  a  sense  of  intellectual  comrade- 
ship which  one  does  not  have  with 
most  philosophers. 
1S4 


For  four  years  my  Philosopher  has 
been  interrogating  Nature,  and  he 
has  not  begun  to  exhaust  the  subject. 
Though  he  has  accumulated  a  good 
deal  of  experience,  he  is  still  in  his  intel- 
lectual prime.  He  has  not  yet  reached 
the  ^'school  age,"  which  in  most  per- 
sons marks  the  beginning  of  the  senile 
decay  of  the  poetic  imagination. 

In  my  walks  and  talks  with  my  Phi- 
losopher I  have  often  been  amazed  at 
my  own  limitations.  Things  which 
are  so  easy  for  him  are  so  diflScult  for 
me.  Particularly  is  this  the  case  in  re- 
gard to  the  more  fundamental  prin- 
ciples of  philosophy.  All  philosophy, 
as  we  know,  is  the  search  for  the 
Good,  the  True,  and  the  Beautiful. 
These  words  represent  only  the  pri- 
mary colors  of  the  moral  spectrum, 
135 


€l)e  S^gnominp  of 

Each  one  is  broken  up  into  any  num- 
ber of  secondary  colors.  Thus  the 
Good  ranges  all  the  way  from  the 
good  to  eat  to  the  good  to  sacrifice 
one's  self  for ;  the  Beautiful  ascends 
from  the  most  trifling  prettiness  to 
the  height  of  the  spiritually  sublime ; 
while  the  True  takes  in  all  manner  of 
verities,  great  and  small.  In  compar- 
ing notes  with  my  Philosopher  I  am 
chagrined  at  my  own  color-blindness. 
He  recognizes  so  many  superlative 
excellences  to  which  I  am  stupidly 
oblivious. 

In  one  of  our  walks  we  stop  at  the 
grocer's,  I  having  been  asked  to  fill 
the  oflSce  of  domestic  purveyor.  It  is 
a  case  where  the  oflSce  has  sought  the 
man»  and  not  the  man  the  oflSice.  Lest 
136 


we  forget,  everything  has  been  writ- 
ten down  so  that  a  wayfaring  man, 
though  a  fool,  need  not  err  therein, 
—  baking-powder  and  coffee  and  a 
dozen  eggs,  and  last  and  least,  and 
under  no  circumstances  to  be  forgot- 
ten, a  cake  of  condensed  yeast.  These 
things  weigh  upon  my  spirits.  The 
thought  of  that  little  yeastcake  shuts 
out  any  disinterested  view  of  the  store. 
It  is  nothing  to  me  but  a  prosaic  col- 
lection of  the  necessaries  of  life.  I  am 
uncheered  by  any  sense  of  romantic 
adventure. 

Not  so  with  my  Philosopher.  He  is 
in  the  rosy  dawn  of  expectation.  The 
doors  are  opened,  and  he  enters  into 
an  enchanted  country.  His  eyes  grow 
large  as  he  looks  about  him.  He  sees 
visions  of  the  Good,  the  True,  and  the 
137 


Beautiful  in  all  their  bewildering,  con- 
crete variety.  They  are  in  barrels  and 
boxes  and  paper  bundles.  They  rise 
toward  the  sky  in  shelves  that  reach 
at  last  the  height  of  the  gloriously 
unattainable.  He  walks  through  the 
vales  of  Arcady,  among  pickles  and 
cheeses.  He  lifts  up  his  eyes  wonder- 
ingly  to  snowy  Olympus  crowned  with 
Pillsbury's  Best.  He  discovers  a 
magic  fountain,  not  spurting  up  as  if 
it  were  but  for  a  moment,  but  issuing 
forth  with  the  mysterious  slowness 
that  befits  the  liquefactions  of  the 
earlier  world.  "What  is  that?"  he 
asks,  and  I  can  hardly  frame  the 
prosaic  word  '*  Molasses." 

"  Molasses !"  he  cries,  gurgling  with 
content;  ''what  a  pretty  word!"     I 
had  n't  thought  about  it,  but  it  is  a 
138 


pretty  word,  and  it  has  come  straight 
down  from  the  Greek  word  for  honey. 

He  discovers  works  of  art.  Sur- 
prising pictures,  glowing  in  color,  are 
on  the  walls.  These  are  cherubs  riot- 
ing in  health,  smiling  old  men,  benig- 
nant matrons,  radiant  maidens,  all 
feasting  on  nectar  and  ambrosia. 
Here  and  there  is  a  pale  ascetic,  with 
a  look  of  agony  on  his  emaciated  face. 

"What  makes  that  man  feel  so 
bad?"  asks  my  Philosopher,  anxious 
to  extract  a  story  from  the  picture.  It 
seems  like  an  inadequate  explanation 
to  say  that  he  is  only  a  martyr  to  his 
own  folly  in  not  getting  the  right  kind 
of  breakfast  food. 

For  one  thing,  my  Philosopher  has 
a  great  physical  advantage  over  me 
when  it  conies  to  seeing  things.  His 
139 


€f)e  3^0nommp  of 

eyes  are  only  two  feet  ten  inches  from 
the  ground,  while  mine  are  some  five 
feet  ten.  Three  feet  do  not  count  for 
much  when  we  are  considering  astro- 
nomical distances,  but  they  make  a 
great  difiference  in  the  way  things 
seem.  There  is  a  difiference  in  the 
horizon  line,  and  the  realm  of  mystery 
begins  much  nearer.  There  is  no  dis- 
enchanting bird's-eye  view  of  the 
counter  with  all  things  thereon.  There 
are  alluring  glimpses  of  piled -up 
wealth. 

There  particularly  is  the  land  of  the 
heart's  desire  in  a  square  glass-cov- 
ered case.  There  are  many  beautiful 
things  in  the  store  to  be  admired  from 
below;  but  one  supremely  beautiful 
and  delectable  object  is  the  crowning 
glory  of  the  place. 
140 


The  artist  who  spends  his  life  in 
attempting  to  minister  to  dull  adult 
sensibilities  never  created  a  master- 
piece that  gave  such  pure  delight  as 
the  candy  dog  which  my  Philosopher 
spies. 

*'See  the  dog!*'  It  is,  indeed,  a 
miracle  of  impressionist  art.  It  is  not 
like  the  dogs  that  bite.  It  offers  itself 
alluringly  to  the  biter,  —  or  rather 
to  one  who  would  leisurely  absorb  it. 
Even  now  there  is  a  vagueness  of  out- 
line that  suggests  the  still  vaguer  out- 
lines it  will  have  when  it  comes  into 
the  possession  of  a  person  of  taste. 

This  treasure  can  be  procured  for 
one  copper  cent.  My  Philosopher  feels 
that  it  is  a  wise  investment,  and  I 
thoroughly  agree  with  him.  However 
much  the  necessaries  of  life  may  have 
141 


€f)e  S^gnominp  of 

advanced  in  price,  the  prime  luxuries 
are  still  within  the  reach  of  all.  We 
still  have  much  to  be  thankful  for 
when  with  one  cent  we  can  purchase 
a  perfect  bliss. 

It  is  all  so  interesting  and  satisfac- 
tory that  we  feel  that  the  visit  to  the 
grocer's  has  been  a  great  success.  It 
is  only  when  we  are  halfway  home 
that  we  remember  the  yeastcake. 

Sometimes  my  Philosopher  insists 
upon  my  telling  him  a  story.  Then  I 
am  conscious  of  my  awkwardness.  It 
is  as  if  my  imagination  were  an  old 
work-horse  suddenly  released  from  its 
accustomed  tip-cart  and  handed  over 
to  a  gay  young  knight  who  is  setting 
forth  in  quest  of  dragons.  It  is  blind 
of  both  eyes,  and  cannot  see  a  dragon 
142 


any  more,  and  only  shies,  now  and 
then,  when  it  comes  to  a  place  where 
it  saw  one  long  ago.  There  is  an  ele- 
ment of  insincerity  in  these  occasional 
frights  which  does  not  escape  the  clear- 
eyed  critic.  It  gets  scared  at  the 
wrong  times,  and  forgets  to  prance 
when  prancing  is  absolutely  demanded 
by  the  situation. 

When  my  Philosopher  tells  a  story, 
it  is  all  that  a  story  ought  to  be.  There 
is  no  labored  introduction,  no  tire- 
some analysis.  It  is  pure  story,  ''of 
imagination  all  compact."  Things 
happen  with  no  long  waits  between 
the  scenes.  Everything  is  instantly 
moulded  to  the  heart's  desire. 

''  Once  upon  a  time  there  was  a  little 
boy.  And  he  wanted  to  be  a  cock-a- 
doodle-doo.  So  he  was  a  cock-a-doo- 
143 


€ht  S^ffnominp  of 

dle-doo.  And  he  wanted  to  fly  up  into 
the  sky.  So  he  did  fly  up  into  the  sky. 
And  he  wanted  to  get  wings  and  a 
tail.  So  he  did  get  some  wings  and  a 
tail." 

Physiologists  tell  us  that  the  trouble 
with  advancing  years  is  that  the  ma- 
terial which  in  youth  went  directly 
to  building  up  the  vital  organs  is  di- 
verted to  the  connective  tissue,  so  that 
after  a  time  there  gets  to  be  too  much 
connective  tissue  and  too  little  to 
connect.  When  the  imagination  is  in 
its  first  freshness,  a  story  is  almost 
without  connective  tissue.  There 
seems  hardly  enough  to  hold  it  to- 
gether. There  is  nothing  to  take  our 
minds  off  the  successive  happenings. 
If  it  is  deemed  desirable  that  a  little 
boy  should  be  a  cock-a-doodle-doo, 
}44 


then  he  is  a  cock-a-doodle-doo.    All 
else  is  labor  and  sorrow. 

As  a  listener  my  Philosopher  is  no 
less  successful  than  as  an  improviser. 
He  is  not  one  of  those  fickle  hearers 
whose  demands  for  some  new  thing 
are  the  ruination  of  literary  art. 
When  he  finds  something  beautiful  it 
is  a  joy  to  him  forever,  and  its  love- 
liness increases  with  each  repetition. 
In  a  classic  tale  he  is  quick  to  resent 
the  slightest  change  in  phraseology. 
There  is  a  just  severity  in  his  rebuke 
when,  in  order  to  give  a  touch  of 
novelty,  I  mix  up  the  actions  appro- 
priate to  the  big  bear,  the  little  bear, 
and  the  middle-sized  bear.  This 
clumsy  attempt  at  originality  by 
means  of  a  willful  perversion  of  the 
truth  offends  him.  If  a  person  can't 
145 


€!|e  3^0nominp  of 

be  original  without  making  a  mess  of 
it,  why  try  to  be  original  at  all  ? 

With  what  keen  expectancy  he 
awaits  each  inevitable  word,  and  how 
pleased  he  is  to  find  that  everything 
comes  out  as  he  expected!  He  re- 
serves his  full  emotion  for  the  true 
dramatic  climax.  If  a  great  tragedian 
could  be  assured  of  having  such  an 
appreciative  audience,  how  pleasant 
would  be  the  pathway  of  art!  The 
tragedy  of  Cock  Robin  reaches  its 
hundredth  night  with  no  apparent 
falling  off  in  interest.  It  is  followed 
as  only  the  finest  critic  will  listen  to 
the  greatest  actor  of  an  immortal 
drama.  He  is  perfectly  familiar  with 
the  text,  and  knows  where  the  thrills 
come  in.  When  the  fatal  arrow  pierces 
Cock  Robin's  breast,  it  never  fails  to 
146 


bring   an   appreciative   exclamation, 
"He's  killed  Cock  Robin!" 

Of  the  niceties  of  science  my  Phi- 
losopher takes  little  account,  yet  he 
loves  to  frequent  the  Museum  of  Nat- 
ural History,  and  is  on  terms  of  inti- 
macy with  many  of  the  stuffed  animals. 
He  walks  as  a  small  Adam  in  this 
Paradise,  giving  to  each  creature  its 
name.  His  taste  is  catholic,  and  while 
he  delights  in  the  humming  birds,  he 
does  not  therefore  scorn  the  less  bril- 
liant hippopotamus.  He  has  no  re- 
pugnance to  an  ugliness  that  is  only 
skin  deep.  He  reserves  his  disappro- 
bation for  an  ugliness  that  seems  to 
be  a  visible  sign  of  inner  ungracious- 
ness. The  small  monkeys  he  finds 
amusing;  but  he  grows  grave  as  he 
passes  on  to  the  larger  apes,  and  be- 
147 


€l)e  S^ffttomhtp  of 

gins  to  detect  in  them  a  caricature 
of  their  betters.  When  we  reach  the 
orang-outang  he  says,  ''Now  let's  go 
home."  Once  outside  the  building,  he 
remarks,  ''I  don't  like  mans  when 
they're  not  made  nice."  I  agree  with 
him ;  for  I  myself  am  something  of  a 
misanthropoidist. 

There  is  nothing  unusual  about  my 
Philosopher.  He  is  not  a  prodigy  or  a 
genius.  He  is  what  a  normal  human 
being  is  at  the  age  of  four,  when  he  is 
still  in  possession  of  all  his  faculties. 
Having  eyes  he  sees  with  them,  and 
having  ears  he  hears  with  them.  Hav- 
ing a  little  mind  of  his  own,  he  uses  it 
on  whatever  comes  to  hand,  trying  its 
edge  on  everything,  just  as  he  would 
try  a  jackknife  if  I  would  let  him.  He 
148 


seeing  ^Broton^^ajj 

wants  to  cut  into  things  and  see  what 
they  are  made  of.  He  wants  to  try  ex- 
periments. He  does  n't  care  how  they 
come  out;  he  knows  they  will  come 
out  some  way  or  other.  Having  an 
imagination,  he  imagines  things,  and 
his  imagination  being  healthy,  the 
things  he  imagines  are  very  pleasant. 
In  this  way  he  comes  to  have  a  very 
good  time  with  his  own  mind.  More- 
over, he  is  a  very  little  person  in  a 
very  big  world,  and  he  is  wise  enough 
to  know  it.  So  instead  of  confining 
himself  to  the  things  he  understands, 
which  would  not  be  enough  to  nourish 
his  life,  he  manages  to  get  a  good  deal 
of  pleasure  out  of  the  things  he  does 
not  understand,  and  so  he  has  "an 
endless  fountain  of  immortal  drink." 
What  becomes  of  these  imagina- 
149 


€l^e  5^gnominp  of 

tive,  inquisitive,  myth-making,  light- 
hearted,  tender-hearted,  and  alto- 
gether charming  young  adventurers 
who  start  out  so  gayly  to  explore  the 
wonder- world  ? 

The  solemn  answer  comes,  "They 
after  a  while  are  grown-up."  Did  you 
ever  meditate  on  that  catastrophe 
which  we  speak  of  as  being  ''grown- 
up"? Habit  has  dulled  our  per- 
ception of  the  absurd  anti- climax 
involved  in  it.  You  have  only  to 
compare  the  two  estates  to  see  that 
something  has  been  lost. 

You  linger  for  a  moment  when  the 
primary  school  has  been  dismissed. 
For  a  little  while  the  stream  of  youth- 
ful humanity  flows  sluggishly  as  be- 
tween the  banks  of  a  canal,  but  once 
beyond  the  school  limits  it  returns 
150 


to  nature.  It  is  a  bright,  foaming 
torrent.  Not  a  moment  is  wasted. 
The  little  girls  are  at  once  exchanging 
confidences,  and  the  little  boys  are 
in  Valhalla,  where  the  heroes  make 
friends  with  one  another  by  indulg- 
ing in  everlasting  assault  and  battery, 
and  continually  arise  ''refreshed  with 
blows."  There  is  no  question  about 
their  being  all  alive  and  actively  in- 
terested in  one  another.  All  the  natu- 
ral reactions  are  exhibited  in  the  most 
interesting  manner. 

Then  you  get  into  a  street  car,  in- 
vented by  an  ingenious  misanthropist 
to  give  you  the  most  unfavorable  view 
possible  of  your  kind.  On  entering 
you  choose  a  side,  unless  you  are  con- 
demned to  be  suspended  in  the  middle. 
Then  you  look  at  your  antagonists  on 
151 


Clltie  ^Fgnominp  of 

the  opposite  side.  What  a  long,  unre- 
lenting row  of  humanity !  These  are 
the  grown-ups.  You  look  for  some 
play  of  emotion,  some  evidence  of  cu- 
riosity, pleasure,  exhilaration,  such  as 
you  might  naturally  expect  from  those 
who  are  taking  a  little  journey  in  the 
world. 

Not  a  sign  of  any  such  emotion  do 
you  discern.  They  are  not  adventur- 
ing into  a  wonder-world.  They  are 
only  getting  over  the  ground.  One 
feels  like  putting  up  a  notice:  ''Lost, 
somewhere  on  the  road  between  in- 
fancy and  middle  age,  several  valu- 
able faculties.  The  finder  will  find 
something  to  his  advantage." 

I  have  no  quarrel  with  Old  Age. 
It  should  be  looked  upon  as  a  reward 
of  merit  to  be  cheerfully  striven  for. 
152 


Old  Age  hath  still  his  honor  and  his  toil. 

Nor  do  I  object  to  the  process  of 
growth.  It  belongs  to  the  order  of 
nature.  Growing  is  like  falling,  —  it 
is  all  right  so  long  as  you  keep  on; 
the  trouble  comes  when  you  stop. 

What  I  object  to  is  the  fatalistic 
way  in  which  people  acquiesce  in  the 
arrest  of  their  own  mental  develop- 
ment. Adolescence  is  exciting.  All 
sorts  of  things  are  happening,  and 
more  are  promised.  Life  rushes  on 
with  a  sweet  tumult.  All  things  seem 
possible.  It  seems  as  if  a  lot  of  the 
unfinished  business  of  the  world  is 
about  to  be  put  through  with  enthu- 
siasm. Then,  just  as  the  process  has 
had  a  fair  start,  some  evil  spirit  inter- 
venes and  says :  "  Time 's  up !  You  've 
grown  all  you  are  to  be  allowed  to. 
153 


€\}t  S^gnominp  of 

Now  you  must  settle  down,  —  and 
be  quick  about  it !  No  more  adolesc- 
ing; you  are  adults!" 

Poor  adults!  Nature  seems  to 
have  been  like  an  Indian  giver,  tak- 
ing away  the  gifts  as  soon  as  they 
are  received,  — 

The  gifts  of  morn 
Ere  life  grows  noisy  and  slower-footed  thought 
Can  overtake  the  rapture  of  the  sense. 

The  extinction  of  the  early  poetry 
and  romance  which  gave  beauty  to  the 
first  view  of  these  realities  has  often 
been  accomplished  by  the  most  delib- 
erate educational  processes.  There 
are  two  kinds  of  education,  —  that 
which  educates,  and  that  which  erad- 
icates. The  latter  is  the  easier  and 
the  more  ancient  method. 

Wordsworth  writes :  — 
154 


25etng  aBroton^ap 

Oh,  many  are  the  poets  that  are  sown 

By  Nature,  men  endowed  with  highest  gifts. 

The  vision  and  the  faculty  divine. 

But  with  this  broad-sowing  of  the 
highest  gifts  it  is  astonishing  how  few 
come  to  maturity.  I  imagine  that  the 
Educational  Man  with  the  Hoe  is  re- 
sponsible for  a  good  deal  of  the  loss. 
In  his  desire  for  clean  culture  he 
treats  any  sproutings  of  the  faculty 
divine  as  mere  weeds,  if  they  come 
up  between  the  rows. 

If  the  Educational  Man  with  the 
Hoe  is  to  be  feared,  the  Educational 
Man  with  the  Pruning  Shears  is  an 
equal  menace. 

There  is  an  art,  once  highly  es- 
teemed, called  topiary.  The  object 
of  topiary  when  carried  to  excess  was 
155 


€l&e  ^Pffnominp  of 

to  take  a  tree,  preferably  a  yew  tree, 
and  by  careful  trimming  to  make  it 
look  like  something  else,  say  a  pea- 
cock standing  under  an  umbrella.  Cu- 
rious eflFects  could  be  produced  in  this 
way,  leafy  similitudes  of  birds  and 
animals  could  be  made  so  that  the 
resemblance  was  almost  as  striking  as 
if  they  had  been  cut  out  of  ginger- 
bread. 

The  object  of  educational  topiary 
is  to  take  a  child,  and,  by  careful 
pruning  away  of  all  his  natural  pro- 
pensities, make  of  him  a  miniature 
grown-up.  It  is  an  interesting  art, 
for  it  shows  what  can  be  done;  the 
only  wonder  is  why  any  one  should 
want  to  do  it.  If  you  would  see  this 
art  at  its  best,  turn  to  Miss  Edge- 
worth's  "Frank,''  a  book  much  ad- 
156 


mired  in  its  day.  Frank,  to  begin 
with,  was  a  very  likable  little  boy.  If 
he  was  not  made  of  the  ^' sugar  and 
spice  and  all  things  nice"  that  little 
girls  are  made  of,  he  had  all  the  more 
homely  miscellaneous  ingredients  that 
little  boys  are  made  of.  The  prob- 
lem of  the  careful  father  and  mother 
was  to  take  Frank  and  reduce  him  in 
the  shortest  possible  time  to  the  adult 
frame  of  mind.  To  this  end  they 
sought  out  any  vagrant  fancies  and  in- 
quisitive yearnings  and  wayward  ad- 
venturousness,  and  destroyed  them. 
This  slaughter  of  the  innocents  con- 
tinued till  Frank's  mind  was  a  model 
of  propriety. 

It  was  hard  work,  but  there  was 
a  satisfaction  in  doing  it  thoroughly. 
The  evening  meal  was  transformed 
157  . 


€lje  S^gnominp  of 

into  a  purgatorial  discipline,  and  as 
he  progressed  from  course  to  course 
Frank's  mind  was  purified  as  by  fire. 

Here  is  one  occasion.  There  was 
a  small  plumcake,  and  Frank  was 
required  to  divide  it  so  that  each  of 
the  five  persons  present  should  have 
a  just  share.  Frank  began  to  cut  the 
cake,  but  by  a  mistake  cut  it  into  six 
pieces  instead  of  five. 

This  miscarriage  of  justice  sent 
dismay  into  the  hearts  of  his  parents. 
They  felt  that  he  was  at  the  parting 
of  the  ways.  It  was  a  great  moral 
crisis,  in  which  his  character  was  to 
be  revealed.  What  would  Frank  do 
with  that  sixth  piece  of  cake?  Per- 
haps —  horrible  thought !  —  he  might 
eat  it.  From  this  crime  he  was  saved 
only  to  fall  into  the  almost  equal  sin 
158 


of  unscientific  charity.  In  order  to 
save  trouble  he  proposed  to  give  the 
extra  piece  to  his  father,  and  when 
questioned  he  could  give  no  better 
reason  than  that  he  thought  his  fa- 
ther liked  cake. 

"'What  right  have  you  to  give  it 
to  any  of  us.^  You  were  to  judge 
about  the  size  of  the  pieces,  and  you 
were  to  take  care  that  we  each  have 
our  just  share.  But  you  are  going  to 
give  one  of  us  twice  as  much  as  any 
of  the  others.'  " 

Justice  triumphed.  "Frank  took 
the  trouble  to  think,  and  he  then  cut 
the  spare  bit  of  cake  into  five  equal 
parts,  and  he  put  these  parts  by  the 
side  of  the  five  large  pieces  and  gave 
one  of  the  large  and  one  of  the  small 
pieces  to  each  person,  and  he  then 
159 


€lje  ^Pgnommp  of 

said:  *I  believe  I  have  divided  the 
cake  fairly  now.'  Everybody  present 
said  'yes,'  and  everybody  looked  care- 
fully at  each  of  the  shares,  and  there 
appeared  exactly  the  same  quantity 
in  each  share.  So  each  person  took  a 
share,  and  all  were  satisfied." 

That  is  to  say,  all  were  satisfied  ex- 
cept Frank's  mother.  She  was  afraid 
that  the  family  meal  had  not  yielded 
its  full  educational  value. 

" '  My  dear  Frank,'  said  his  mother, 
*as  you  have  divided  the  cake  so 
fairly,  let  us  see  how  you  will  divide 
the  sugar  that  was  upon  the  top  of 
the  cake,  and  which  is  now  broken 
and  crumbled  to  pieces  in  the  plate. 
We  all  like  sugar;  divide  it  equally 
amongst  us.' 

"*But  this  will  be  very  diflScult  to 
160 


do,  mamma,  because  the  pieces  of 
sugar  are  of  such  diflFerent  sizes  and 
shapes.  I  do  not  know  how  I  shall 
ever  divide  it  exactly.  Will  it  do  if  I  do 
not  divide  it  quite  exactly,  ma'am  .^' 

"'No,'  said  his  mother,  'I  beg  you 
will  divide  it  quite  exactly.' " 

Frank  gathered  his  fragments  into 
five  little  mounds,  and  after  carefully 
measuring  their  height,  declared  that 
they  were  equal. 

'''They  are  of  the  same  length  and 
breadth,  I  acknowledge,'  said  the  fa- 
ther, 'but  they  are  not  of  the  same 
thickness.' 

"'Oh,  thickness!  I  never  thought 
of  thickness.' 

"'But  you  should  have  thought  of 
it,'  said  his  father." 

At  last  Frank,  seeing  that  there 
161 


€f>e  S^gnommp  of 

was  no  other  way  to  satisfy  the  de- 
mands of  distributive  justice,  went  to 
the  closet,  and  brought  forth  a  pair 
of  scales.  *'By  patiently  adding  and 
taking  away,  he  at  last  made  them 
each  of  the  same  weight,  and  every- 
body was  satisfied  with  the  accuracy 
of  the  division." 

This  habit  of  accuracy,  developed 
in  the  family  meals,  saved  them  from 
the  temptation  of  wasting  time  in  flip- 
pant conversation. 

Miss  Edgeworth's  most  striking 
plea  for  grown-up-edness  versus  child- 
ish curiosity  was  elaborated  in  her 
story  of  Frank  and  his  orrery.  Frank 
had  read  of  an  orrery  in  which  the 
motions  of  the  planets  were  shown  by 
ingenious  mechanism.  Being  a  small 
boy,  he  naturally  desired  to  make  one. 
162 


For  several  days  he  almost  forgot 
about  his  Roman  History  and  Latin 
Grammar  and  the  "Stream  of 
Time,"  so  absorbed  was  he  in  mak- 
ing his  orrery.  He  had  utilized  his 
mother's  tambour  frame  and  knit- 
ting needles;  and  wires  and  thread 
held  together  his  planets,  which  were 
made  of  worsted  balls.  It  was  a 
wonderful  universe  which  Frank  had 
created — as  many  great  philosophers 
before  him  had  created  theirs  —  out 
of  the  inner  consciousness.  When  it 
had  been  constructed  to  the  best  of  his 
ability,  the  only  question  was,  would 
his  universe  work,  —  would  his  plan- 
ets go  singing  around  the  sun,  or  was 
there  to  be  a  crash  of  worlds  ?  Frank 
knew  no  other  way  than  to  put  it  to 
the  test  of  action,  and  he  invited  the 
163 


€l>e  S^gnommp  of 

family  to  witness  the  great  experiment. 
He  pointed  out  with  solemn  joy  hia 
worsted  earth,  moon,  and  planets,  and 
predicted  their  revolutions  according 
to  his  astronomy. 

But  the  moment  his  father's  eye 
rested  upon  it  all,  he  saw  that  it  was 
absurd. 

He  "pointed  out  the  defects,  the 
deficiencies,  the  mistakes,  —  in  one 
word,  the  absurdities,  —  but  he  did 
not  use  that  offensive  word,  for  he  was 
tender  of  Frank's  feelings  for  his 
wasted  work." 

"'Well,  papa,'  said  Mary,  'what  is 
your  advice  to  Frank?' 

"'My  first  advice  to  you,  Frank,' 
said  his  father,  'and  indeed  the  con- 
dition upon  which  I  now  stay  and 
give  up  my  time  to  you  is  that  you 
164 


abide  steadily  by  whatever  resolution 
you  now  make,  either  quite  to  finish 
or  quite  to  give  up  this  orrery.  If  you 
choose  to  finish  it  you  must  give  up 
for  some  time  reading  anything  en- 
tertaining or  instructive;  you  must 
give  up  arithmetic  and  history.' 

"^And  the  '^Stream  of  Time"  and 
the  lists  ? '  said  Mary. 

"'Everything/  said  his  father,  'to 
the  one  object  of  making  an  orrery,  — 
and  when  made  as  well  as  you  possi- 
bly could  with  my  assistance  make  it, 
observe  that  it  will  only  be  what  others 
have  repeatedly  made  before.  .  .  . 
Master  Frank  will  grow  older,  and 
when  or  why  or  how  he  made  this 
orrery  few  will  know  or  care,  but  all 
will  see  whether  he  has  the  knowledge 
which  is  necessary  for  a  man  and  a 
165 


€I)e  S^gnominp  of 

gentleman  to  possess.  Now  choose, 
Frank."' 

Frank  seized  the  orrery.  "'Mary, 
bring  your  work  basket,  my  dear,' 
said  he. 

"And  he  pulled  off  one  by  one,  de- 
liberately, the  worsted  sun,  moon, 
earth,  and  stars,  and  threw  them  into 
the  work  basket  which  Mary  held. 
Mary  sighed,  but  Frank  did  not  sigh. 
He  was  proud  to  give  his  father  a  proof 
of  his  resolution,  and  when  he  looked 
around  he  saw  tears,  but  they  were 
tears  of  pleasure,  in  his  mother's  eyes. 

"'Are  you  sure  yet  that  I  can  keep 
to  my  good  resolution.?' 

"'I  am  not  quite  sure,  but  this  is  a 
good  beginning,'  said  his  father." 

The  aim  of  all  this  discipline  was 
to  make  Frank  just  like  his  father. 
166 


Now  I  am  not  saying  anything  against 
Frank's  father.  He  was  a  truly  good 
man,  and  well-to-do.  Still,  there  have 
always  been  so  many  just  like  him  that 
it  would  not  have  done  much  harm  if 
Frank  had  been  allowed  to  be  a  little 
different. 

I  cannot  help  thinking  how  differ- 
ent was  a  contemporary  of  his,  Michael 
Faraday.  Faraday  had  not  any  one 
to  look  after  him  in  his  youth,  and  to 
keep  him  from  making  unnecessary 
experiments.  When  he  felt  like  mak- 
ing an  experiment  he  did  so.  There 
was  no  one  to  tell  him  how  it  would 
come  out,  so  he  had  to  wait  to  see  how 
it  did  come  out.  In  this  way  he  wasted 
a  good  deal  of  time  that  might  have 
been  spent  in  learning  the  things 
that  every  educated  Englishman  was 
167 


€l^e  S^gnominp  of 

expected  to  know,  and  he  found  out 
a  good  many  things  that  the  edu- 
cated Englishman  did  not  know,  — 
this  caused  him  to  be  always  a  little 
out  of  the  fashion. 

He  let  curiosity  get  the  better  of 
him,  and  when  he  was  quite  well  on 
in  years  he  would  try  to  do  things 
with  pith-balls  and  electric  currents, 
just  as  Frank  tried  to  do  things  with 
worsted  balls  before  his  father  showed 
him  the  folly  of  it.  Some  of  his  experi- 
ments turned  out  to  be  very  useful,  but 
most  of  them  did  not.  Some  of  them 
only  proved  that  what  people  thought 
they  knew  was  not  so.  Faraday  seemed 
to  be  just  as  much  interested  in  this 
kind  as  in  the  other.  He  never  learned 
to  mind  only  his  own  business,  but 
was  always  childishly  inquisitive,  so 
168 


he  never  was  so  sure  of  things  as  was 
Frank's  father. 

Still,  it  takes  all  sorts  of  people  to 
make  up  a  world,  and  if  a  person  can- 
not be  like  Frank's  father,  it  is  not  so 
bad  to  be  like  Faraday. 

Frank's  father  would  have  been 
shocked  at  Faraday's  first  introduc- 
tion to  the  problems  of  metaphy- 
sical speculation.  ''I  remember,"  he 
says,  ^' being  a  great  questioner  when 
young."  And  one  of  his  first  ques- 
tions was  in  regard  to  the  seat  of 
the  soul.  The  question  was  suggested 
in  this  way.  Being  a  small  boy,  and 
seeing  the  bars  of  an  iron  railing,  he 
felt  called  upon  to  try  experimentally 
whether  he  could  squeeze  through. 
The  experiment  was  only  a  partial 
169 


€l^e  ^Fgnommp  of 

success.  He  got  his  head  through,  but 
he  could  not  get  it  back.  Then  the  phy- 
sical difficulty  suggested  the  great  met- 
aphysical question,  "On  which  side 
of  the  fence  am  I.^" 

Frank's  father  would  have  said  that 
that  was  neither  the  time  nor  the 
place  for  such  speculation,  and  that 
the  proper  way  to  study  philosophy 
was  to  wait  till  one  could  sit  down  in 
a  chair  and  read  it  out  of  a  book. 
But  to  Faraday  the  thoughts  he  got 
out  of  a  book  never  seemed  to  be 
so  interesting  as  those  which  came  to 
him  while  he  was  stuck  in  the  fence. 

When  Frank  learned  a  few  lines  of 
poetry,  he  asked  to  be  allowed  to  say 
them  to  his  father. 

"'I  think,'  said  his  mother,  *your 
father  would  like  you  to  repeat  them 
170 


25emg  4Btt}\S}nMp 

if  you  understand  them  all,  but  not 
otherwise.'" 

Of  course  that  was  the  end  of  any 
nonsense  in  that  direction.  If  Frank 
was  kept  away  from  any  poetry  he 
could  not  altogether  understand,  he 
would  soon  be  grown-up,  so  that  he 
would  not  be  tempted  by  any  kind  of 
poetry  any  more  than  his  father  was. 

I  am  sure  Frank's  father  would  have 
disapproved  of  the  way  my  Philoso- 
pher takes  his  poetry.  His  favorite 
poem  is  **A  frog  he  would  a- wooing 
go,"  —  especially  the  first  quatrain. 
His  analysis  is  very  defective ;  he  takes 
it  as  a  whole.  He  likes  the  mystery  of 
it,  the  quick  action,  the  hearty,  incon- 
sequent refrain:  — 

A  frog  he  would  a- wooing  go  — 
Heigh  ho !  says  Rowley  — 

171 


€lje  S^gnominp  of 

Whether  his  mother  would  let  him  or  no  — 
With  a  rowly-powly,  gammon  and  spinach. 
Heigh  ho!  says  Anthony  Rowley. 

This  to  him  is  poetry.  Everything  is 
lifted  above  the  commonplace.  The 
frog  is  no  cousin  to  the  vulgar  hop- 
toad, whose  presence  in  the  garden,  in 
spite  of  his  usefulness,  is  an  affront. 
He  is  a  creature  of  romance;  he  is 
going  a- wooing,  —  whatever  that  may 
be ;  —  he  only  knows  that  it  is  some- 
thing dangerous.  And  what  a  glorious 
line  that  is,  — 

Whether  his  mother  would  let  him  or  no. 

It  thrills  him  like  the  sound  of  a  trum- 
pet. And  great,  glorious  Anthony 
Rowley!  It  needs  no  footnote  to  tell 
about  him.  It  is  enough  to  know  that 
Rowley  is  a  great,  jovial  soul,  who, 
when  the  poetry  is  going  to  his  liking, 
172 


cries,  ''Heigh  ho ! "  —  and  when  Row- 
ley cries/'  Heigh  ho ! "  my  Philosopher 
cries,  "Heigh  ho!"  too,  just  to  keep 
him  company.  And  so  the  poem  goes 
on  "with  a  rowly-powly,  gammon 
and  spinach,"  and  nobody  knows 
what  it  means.    That's  the  secret. 

Now  I  should  not  wish  my  Phi- 
losopher always  to  look  upon  "A  frog 
he  would  a- wooing  go"  as  the  high- 
water  mark  of  poetical  genius ;  but  I 
should  wish  him  to  bring  to  better 
poetry  the  same  hearty  relish  he 
brings  to  this.  The  rule  should  be,  — 

Now  good  digestion  wait  on  appetite, 
And  health  on  both. 

When  I  see  persons  who  upon  the  altar 
of  education  have  sacrificed  digestion, 
appetite,  and  health,  I  cannot  but 
feel  that  something  is  wrong.  I  am 
173 


€I)e  3^0ttominp  of 

reminded  of  an  inscription  which  I 
found  on  a  tombstone  in  a  Vermont 
churchyard :  — 

Here  lies  cut  down  like  unripe  fruit 
The  only  son  of  Amos  Toot. 


Behold  the  amazing  alteration 
Brought  about  by  inoculation : 
The  means  employed  his  life  to  save 
Hurled  him,  untimely,  to  the  grave. 

Sometimes  the  good  housewife  has 
chosen  carefully  every  ingredient  for 
her  cake,  and  has  obeyed  conscien- 
tiously the  mandates  of  the  cookbook. 
She  has  with  Pharisaic  scrupulosity 
taken  four  eggs  and  no  more,  and 
two  cups  of  sugar,  and  two  teaspoon- 
fuls  of  sifted  flour,  and  a  pinch  of 
baking  powder,  and  a  small  teacupf ul 
of  hot  water.  She  has  beaten  the  eggs 
very  light  and  stirred  in  the  flour  only 
174 


a  little  at  a  time.  She  has  beaten  the 
dough  and  added  granulated  sugar 
with  discretion.  She  has  resisted  the 
temptation  to  add  more  flour  when 
she  has  been  assured  that  it  would  not 
be  good  for  the  cake.  And  then  she 
has  placed  the  work  of  her  hands  in 
a  moderately  hot  oven,  after  which  she 
awaits  the  consummation  of  her  hopes. 
In  due  time  she  looks  into  the  mod- 
erately hot  oven,  and  finds  only  a  sod- 
den mass.  Something  has  happened 
to  the  cake. 

Such  accidents  happen  in  the  best 
of  attempts  at  education.  The  out- 
come is  disappointing.  The  ingredi- 
ents of  the  educational  cake  are  ex- 
cellent, and  an  immense  amount  of 
faithful  work  has  been  put  into  it,  but 
sometimes  it  does  not  rise.  As  the 
175 


€l|e  S^gnommp  of 

old-fashioned  housekeeper  would  say, 
it  looks  "sad." 

It  is  easier  to  find  fault  with  the 
result  than  to  point  out  the  remedy ; 
but  so  long  as  such  results  frequently 
happen,  the  business  of  the  home  and 
the  school  is  full  of  fascinating  and 
disconcerting  uncertainty.  One  thing 
is  obvious,  and  that  is  that  it  is  no 
more  safe  for  the  teacher  than  for  the 
preacher  to  ''banish  Nature  from  his 
plan."  Of  course  the  reason  we  tried 
to  banish  Nature  in  the  first  place  was 
not  because  we  bore  her  any  ill-will, 
but  only  because  she  was  all  the  time 
interfering  with  our  plans. 

The  fact  is  that  Nature  is  not  very 
considerate  of  our  grown-up  pre- 
judices. She  does  not  set  such  store 
by  our  dearly  bought  acquirements 
176 


as  we  do.  She  is  more  concerned 
about  ''the  process  of  becoming"' 
than  about  the  thing  which  we  have 
already  become.  She  is  quite  cap- 
able of  taking  the  finished  product 
upon  which  we  had  prided  ourselves 
and  using  it  as  the  raw  material  out  of 
which  to  make  something  else.  Of 
course  this  tries  our  temper.  We  do 
not  like  to  see  our  careful  finishing 
touches  treated  in  that  way. 

Especially  does  Nature  upset  our 
adult  notions  about  the  relations 
between  teaching  and  learning.  We 
exalt  the  function  of  teaching,  and 
seem  to  imagine  that  it  might  go  on 
automatically.  We  sometimes  think 
of  the  teacher  as  a  lawgiver,  and  of 
the  learner  as  one  who  with  docility 
receives  what  is  graciously  given. 
177 


€f)e  3^gnominp  of 

But  the  law  to  be  understood  and 
obeyed  is  the  law  of  the  learner's 
mind,  and  not  that  of  the  teacher's. 
The  didactic  method  must  be  sub- 
ordinated to  the  vital.  Teaching  may 
be  developed  into  a  very  neat  and 
orderly  system,  but  learning  is  apt 
to  be  quite  disorderly.  It  is  likely  to 
come  by  fits  and  starts,  and  when  it 
does  come  it  is  very  exciting. 

Those  who  have  had  the  good  for- 
tune in  mature  life  to  learn  something 
have  described  the  experience  as  be- 
ing quite  upsetting.  They  have  found 
out  something  that  they  had  never 
known  before,  and  the  discovery  was 
so  overpowering  that  they  could  not 
pay  attention  to  what  other  people 
were  telling  them. 

Kepler  describes  his  sensations 
178 


when  he  discovered  the  law  of  planet- 
ary motion.  He  could  not  keep  still. 
He  forgot  that  he  was  a  sober,  middle- 
aged  person,  and  acted  as  if  he  were 
a  small  boy  who  had  just  got  the 
answer  to  his  sum  in  vulgar  fractions. 
Nobody  had  helped  him;  he  had 
found  it  out  for  himself ;  and  now  he 
could  go  out  and  play.  ''Let  nothing 
confine  me :  I  will  indulge  my  sacred 
ecstasy.  I  will  triumph  over  man- 
kind. ...  If  you  forgive  me,  I  re- 
joice ;  if  you  are  angry,  I  cannot  help 
it."  In  fact,  Kepler  did  n't  care 
whether  school  kept  or  not. 

Now  in  the  first  years  of  our  exist- 
ence we  are  in  the  way  of  making 
first-rate  discoveries  every  day.  No 
wonder  that  we  find  it  so  hard  to  keep 
still  and  to  listen  respectfully  to  people 
179 


€lje  S^gnominp  of 

whose  knowledge  is  merely  remin- 
iscent. Above  all,  it  is  difficult  for  us 
to  keep  our  attention  fixed  on  their 
mental  processes  when  our  minds 
make  forty  revolutions  to  their  one. 

There,  for  instance,  is  the  Alpha- 
bet. Because  the  teacher  told  us 
about  it  yesterday  she  is  grieved  that 
we  do  not  remember  what  she  said. 
But  so  many  surprising  things  have 
happened  since  then  that  it  takes  a 
little  time  for  us  to  make  sure  that  it 's 
the  same  old  Alphabet  this  morning 
that  we  had  the  other  day.  She  is  the 
victim  of  preconceived  ideas  on  the 
subject,  but  our  minds  are  open  to 
conviction.  Most  of  the  letters  still 
look  unfamiliar;  but  when  we  really 
do  learn  to  recognize  Big  A  and  Round 
O,  we  are  disposed  to  indulge  our 
180 


sacred  ecstasy  and  to  "triumph  over 
mankind." 

If  the  teacher  be  a  sour  person  who 
has  long  ago  completed  her  educa- 
tion, she  will  take  this  occasion  to 
chide  us  for  not  paying  attention  to  a 
new  letter  that  is  just  swimming  into 
our  ken.  If,  however,  she  is  fortun- 
ate enough  to  be  one  who  keeps  on 
learning,  she  will  share  the  triumph 
of  our  achievement,  for  she  knows 
how  it  feels. 

There  is  coming  to  be  a  greater 
sympathy  between  teachers  and  learn- 
ers, as  there  is  a  clearer  knowledge 
of  the  way  the  mind  grows.  But  even 
yet  one  may  detect  a  certain  note  of 
condescension  in  the  treatment  of  the 
characteristics  of  early  childhood.  The 
child,  we  say,  has  eager  curiosity,  a 
181 


€I)e  S^gnominp  of 

myth-making  imagination,  a  sensitive- 
ness to  momentary  impressions,  a  de- 
sire to  make  things  and  to  destroy 
things,  a  tendency  to  imitate  what  he 
admires.  His  mind  goes  out  not  in 
one  direction,  but  in  many  directions. 
Then  we  say,  in  our  solemn,  grown-up 
way :  "Why,  that  is  just  like  Primitive 
Man,  and  how  unlike  Us !  It  has  taken 
a  long  time  to  transform  Primitive 
Man  into  Us,  but  if  we  start  soon 
enough  we  may  eradicate  the  primi- 
tive things  before  they  have  done  much 
harm." 

What  we  persistently  fail  to  under- 
stand is  that  in  these  primitive  things 
are  the  potentialities  of  all  the  most 
lasting  satisfactions  of  later  life. 

Browning  tells  us  how  the  boy 
182 


David    felt    when    he    watched    his 

sheep :  — 

Then  fancies  grew  rife 
Which  had  come  long  ago  on  the  pasture,  when 

round  me  the  sheep 
Fed  in  silence  —  above,  the  one  eagle  wheeled 

slow  as  in  sleep; 
And  I  lay  in  my  hollow  and  mused  on  the  world 

that  might  lie 
'Neath  his  ken,  though  I  saw  but  the  strip  'twixt 

the  hill  and  the  sky: 
And  I  laughed,  —  **  Since  my  days  are  ordained 

to  be  passed  with  my  flocks. 
Let  me  people  at  least,  with  my  fancies,  the  plains 

and  the  rocks, 
Dream  the  life  I  am  never  to  mix  with,  and 

image  the  show 
Of  mankind  as  they  live  in  those  fashions  I  hardly 

shall  know." 

All  this  is  natural  enough,  we  say, 
in  a  mere  boy,  —  but  he  will  outgrow 
it.  But  now  and  then  some  one  does 
not  outgrow  it.  He  has  become  a  man, 
and  yet  in  his  mind  fancies  are  still 
183 


€I)e  ^Pgnommp  of 

rife.  They  throng  upon  him  and  crave 
expression.  The  things  he  sees,  the 
people  he  meets,  are  all  symbols  to  him, 
just  as  the  one  eagle  which  '^  wheeled 
slow  as  in  sleep"  was  to  the  shepherd 
lad  the  symbol  of  a  great  unknown 
world.  That  which  he  sees  of  the 
actual  world  seems  still  to  him  only 
a  strip  "  'twixt  the  hill  and  the  sky," 
—  all  the  rest  he  imagines.  He  fills 
it  with  vivid  color  and  absorbing  life. 
He  peoples  it  with  his  own  thoughts. 
We  call  such  a  person  a  poet ;  and 
if  he  is  a  very  good  poet,  we  call  him 
a  genius;  and,  in  order  to  do  him 
honor,  we  pretend  that  we  cannot 
understand  him,  and  we  employ 
people  to  explain  him  to  us.  We  treat 
his  works  as  alcohol  is  treated  in  the 
arts.  It  is,  as  they  say, ''  denaturized," 
184 


25eing  4Sin\iyn^Bp 

that  is,  something  is  put  into  it  that 
people  don't  like,  so  that  they  will  not 
drink  it  "on  the  sly!'' 

Yet  all  the  time  the  plain  fact  is 
that  the  poet  is  simply  a  person  who 
is  still  in  possession  of  all  his  early 
qualities.  Wordsworth  gave  away  the 
secret.  He  is  a  boy  who  keeps  on 
growing.   He  is 

One  whose  heart  the  holy  forms 
Of  young  imagination  have  kept  pure. 

Where  others  see  a  finished  world,  he 
sees  all  things  as  manifestations  of  a 
free  power. 

Even  in  their  fixed  and  steady  lineaments 
He  traced  an  ebbing  and  a  flowing  mind, 
Expression  ever  varying. 

This  ebbing  and  flowing  mind  with 

its   ever-changing   expression   is   the 

charm  of  early  childhood.    It  is  the 

185 


€l)e  S^gnominp  of 

charm  of  all  genius  as  well.  Turn  to 
Shelley's  ^'Skylark/'  The  student  of 
Child  Psychology  never  found  more 
images  chasing  one  another  through 
the  mind.  The  fancies  follow  one 
another  as  rapidly  as  if  Shelley  had 
been  only  four  years  old.  Frank's 
father  would  have  been  troubled  at 
the  lack  of  business-like  grasp  of  the 
subject.  What  was  the  skylark  like  ? 
It  was 

Like  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  is  just  begun. 

Then  again,  it  was 

Like  a  star  of  heaven 
In  the  broad  daylight. 


It  was 


Like  a  poet  hidden 
In  the  light  of  thought. 


It  was  like  a  high-born  maiden,  like 

a  rose,  like  a  glow-worm,  like  vernal 

186 


showers.  The  mind  wanders  off  and 
sees  visions  of  purple  evenings  and 
golden  lightnings  and  white  dawns 
and  rain-awakened  flowers.  These 
were  but  hints  of  the  reality  of  feel- 
ing, for 

All  that  ever  was 
Joyous,  and  clear,  and  fresh,  thy  music  doth  sur- 
pass. 

We  know  of  religion  —  or  at  lea^t 
we  have  often  been  told  —  that  it  is 
found  in  the  purest  form  in  the  heart 
of  a  child,  and  that  it  consists  in  nur- 
ture and  development  of  this  early 
grace  through  all  the  years  that  may 
be  allotted.  The  same  thing  is  true 
of  all  that  concerns  the  ideal  life. 
The  artist,  the  reformer,  the  inventor, 
the  poet,  the  man  of  pure  science,  the 
really  fruitful  and  original  man  of 
187 


€Ije  S^gnommp  of 

affairs,  —  these  are  the  incorrigibles. 
They  refuse  to  accept  the  hard-and- 
fast  rules  that  are  laid  down  for  them. 
They  insist  upon  finding  time  and 
room  for  activities  that  are  not  con- 
ceived of  as  tasks,  but  as  the  glorious 
play  of  their  own  faculties.  They  are 
full  of  a  great,  joyous  impulse,  and 
their  work  is  but  the  expression  of 
this  impulse.  They  somehow  have 
time  for  the  unexpected.  They  see 
that  which 

Gives  to  seas  and  sunset  skies 
The  unspent  beauty  of  surprise. 

The  world  is  in  their  eyes  ever  fresh 
and  sparkling.  Life  is  full  of  possi- 
bilities. They  see  no  reason  to  give 
up  the  habit  of  wonder.  They  never 
outgrow  the  need  of  asking  questions, 
though  the  final  answers  do  not  come. 
188 


25emg  oBroton^Jap 

When  to  a  person  of  this  temper  you 
repeat  the  hard  maxims  of  workaday 
wisdom,  he  escapes  from  you  with 
the  smiling  audacity  of  a  truant  boy. 
He  is  one  who  has  awakened  right 
early  on  a  wonderful  morning.  There 
is  a  spectacle  to  be  seen  by  those  who 
have  eyes  for  it.  He  is  not  willing  out 
of  respect  for  you  to  miss  it.  He  hears 
the  music,  and  he  follows  it.  It  is  the 
music  of  the 

Olympian  bards  who  sung 

Divine  ideas  below. 
Which  always  find  us  young. 

And  always  keep  us  so. 


€^ti^tma^  anti  tlje  spirit  of 
SDemoaracp 


CfjrijStmasf  anti  tl^e  M>^Kit  of 
SDemocracp 

"Times  have  changed,"  said  old 
Scrooge,  as  he  sat  by  my  fireside  on 
Christmas  Eve.  ''The  Christmas 
Carol''  had  been  read,  as  our  custom 
was,  and  the  children  had  gone  to 
bed,  so  that  only  Scrooge  and  I  re- 
mained to  watch  the  dying  embers. 

''Times  have  changed,  and  I  am 
not  appreciated  as  I  was  in  the  middle 
193 


of  the  last  century.  People  don't  seem 
to  be  having  so  good  a  time.  You  re- 
member the  Christmas  when  I  was 
converted  ?  What  larks !  Up  to  that 
time  I  had  been '  a  squeezing,  wrench- 
ing, grasping,  scraping,  clutching, 
covetous  old  sinner.'  Those  were  the 
very  words  that  described  me.  Then 
the  Christmas  Spirit  took  possession 
of  me  and  —  presto !  change !  All  at 
once  I  became  a  new  creature.  I  be- 
gan to  hurry  about,  giving  all  sorts  of 
things  to  all  sorts  of  people.  You  re- 
member how  I  scattered  turkeys  over 
the  neighborhood,  shouting,  'Here's 
the  turkey!  Hello!  Whoop!  How 
are  you!  Merry  Christmas!'  And 
then  I  sat  down  and  chuckled  over 
my  generosity  till  I  cried.  I  was  hav- 
ing the  time  of  my  life.  You  see,  I 
194 


€fje  spirit  of  SDemocracp 

had  n't  been  used  to  that  sort  of  thing, 
and  it  went  to  my  head. 

"And  how  grateful  everybody  was ! 
They  took  everything  in  the  spirit  in 
which  it  was  offered,  and  asked  no 
questions.  Everywhere  there  was  an 
outstretched  hand  and  a  fervent  God- 
bless-you  for  every  gift.  Nobody 
twitted  me  about  the  past.  I  was  all 
at  once  elevated  to  the  position  of  an 
earthly  Providence. 

''Talk  of  fun !  Was  there  ever  such 
a  practical  joke  as  to  scare  Bob 
Cratchit  within  an  inch  of  his  life  and 
then  raise  his  salary  before  he  could 
say  Jack  Robinson !  You  should  have 
seen  him  jump!  How  the  little 
Crat chits  shouted  for  joy !  And  when 
the  thing  was  written  up,  all  Anglo- 
Saxondom  was  smiling  through  its 
195 


tears  and  saying :  *  That's  just  like  us. 
God  bless  us,  every  one/ 

"  But  it 's  different  now.  Something 
has  got  into  the  Christmas  Spirit. 
Doing  good  does  n't  seem  such  a  jolly 
thing  as  it  once  was,  and  you  can't 
carry  it  off  with  a  whoop  and  hello. 
People  are  getting  critical.  In  these 
days  a  charitable  shilling  does  n't  go 
so  far  as  it  used  to,  and  does  n't  buy 
nearly  so  many  God-bless-you's.  You 
complain  of  the  rise  in  the  price  of 
the  necessaries  of  life.  It  is  n't  a  cir- 
cumstance to  the  increase  in  the  cost 
of  luxuries  like  benevolence.  Almost 
every  one  looks  forward  to  the  time 
when  he  can  afford  to  be  generous. 
And  when  he  is  generous  he  likes  to 
feel  generous,  and  to  have  other  people 
sympathize  with  him.  It's  only  hu- 
196 


€f)e  spirit  of  2Democrac^ 

man  nature.  A  man  can't  be  thinking 
about  himself  all  the  time;  he  gets 
that  tired  feeling  that  your  scientific 
people  in  these  days  call  altruism. 
It  is  an  inability  to  concentrate  his 
mind  on  his  own  concerns.  In  spite 
of  himself  his  thoughts  wander  off  to 
other  people's  affairs,  and  he  has  an 
impulse  to  do  them  good.  Now  in  my 
day  it  was  the  easiest  thing  in  the  world 
to  do  good.  The  only  thing  necessary 
was  to  feel  good-natured,  and  there 
you  were !  Nowadays,  the  way  of  the 
benefactor  is  hard.  It's  so  difficult 
that  I  understand  you  actually  have 
Schools  of  rf^ajkhropy^  i^ 

Scrooge  shrugged  his  shoulders  and 
seemed  to  shrivel  at  the  thought  of 
these  horrible  institutions. 

*' Just  fancy,"  he  continued,  ^^how 
197 


I  should  have  felt  on  that  blessed 
Christmas  night,  if,  instead  of  starting 
ofif  as  an  amateur  angel,  feeling  my 
wings  growing  every  moment,  I  had 
been  compelled  to  prepare  for  an 
entrance  examination.  I  suppose  I 
should  have  been  put  with  the  back- 
ward pupils  whose  early  education 
had  been  neglected,  and  should  have 
had  to  learn  the  A  B  C's  of  charity. 
School  of  Philanthropy!  Ugh!  And 
in  the  holidays,  too ! 

''I  have  been  visiting  some  elderly 
gentlemen  who  have  had  something 
of  my  experience  with  the  Spirit  of 
Christmas.  Like  me,  they  were  con- 
verted somewhat  late  in  life.  They 
never  were  in  as  bad  a  way  as  I  was, 
for  I  did  business,  you  may  remem- 
ber, in  a  narrow  street  with  quite  sor- 
198 


€^t  spirit  of  2Democracp 

did  surroundings,  while  they  were 
financiers  in  a  large  way.  Yet  I  sup- 
pose that  they,  too,  were  'squeezing, 
wrenching,  grasping,  scraping,  clutch- 
ing, covetous  old  sinners,'  though 
nobody  had  the  courage  to  tell  them 
so.  Then  they  got  tired  of  clutching, 
and  their  hearts  warmed  and  their 
hands  relaxed  and  they  began  to  give. 
Never  was  such  giving  known  before. 
It  was  a  perfect  deluge  of  beneficence. 
A  mere  catalogue  of  the  gifts  would 
make  a  Christmas  carol  of  itself. 

''But  would  you  believe  it,  they 
never  have  got  the  fun  out  of  it  that  I 
got  when  I  filled  the  cab  full  of  tur- 
keys and  set  out  for  Camden  town. 
The  old  Christmas  feeling  seems  to 
have  been  chilled.  The  public  has 
grown  critical.  Instead  of  dancing  for 
199 


joy,  it  looks  suspiciously  at  the  gifts 
and  asks  : '  Where  did  they  get  them  ? ' 
It  has  been  so  impressed  by  the  germ 
theory  of  disease  that  it  foolishly  fears 
that  even  money  may  be  tainted.  It 's 
a  preposterous  situation.  Generosity 
is  a  drug  on  the  market,  and  grati- 
tude can't  be  had  at  any  reasonable 
price." 

''Yes,"  I  said,  "you  are  quite  right, 
public  sentiment  has  changed.  Grati- 
tude is  not  so  easily  won  as  it  was  in 
your  day,  and  it  takes  longer  to  trans- 
form a  clutching,  covetous  old  sinner 
into  a  serviceable  philanthropist.  But 
I  do  not  think,  Scrooge,  that  the 
Christmas  Spirit  has  really  vanished. 
He  is  only  a  little  chastened  and  sub- 
dued by  the  Spirit  of  Democracy." 

''I  don't  see  what  Democracy  has 
200 


€l)e  ^pitit  of  2Democracp 

to  do  with  it,"  said  Scrooge.  '*I'm 
sure  that  nobody  ever  accused  me  of 
being  an  aristocrat.  What  I  am 
troubled  about  is  the  decay  of  grati- 
tude. If  I  give  a  poor  fellow  a  shilling, 
I  ought  to  be  allowed  the  satisfaction 
of  having  him  remove  his  hat  and 
say,  *Thank'ee,  sir,'  and  he  ought  to 
say  it  as  if  he  meant  it.  The  heartiness 
of  his  thanksgiving  is  half  the  fun.  It 
makes  one  feel  good  all  over." 

'^But,"  I  answered,  ''if  the  fellow 
happens  to  have  a  good  memory  he 
may  recall  the  fact  that  yesterday  you 
took  two  shillings  from  him,  and  he 
may  think  that  the  proper  response 
to  your  sudden  act  of  generosity  is, 
'  Where 's  that  other  shilling  ? '  That 's 
what  the  Spirit  of  Democracy  puts 
him  up  to.  It's  not  so  polite,  but  you 
201 


must  admit  that  it  goes  right  to  the 
point.'* 

"I  don't  like  it,"  said  Scrooge. 

"'I  thought  you  wouldn't.  There 
are  a  great  many  people  who  don't 
like  it.  It's  a  twitting  on  facts  that 
takes  away  a  good  deal  of  the  pleasure 
of  being  generous." 

''I  should  say  it  did,"  grumbled 
Scrooge.  ''It  makes  you  feel  mean 
just  when  you  are  most  sensitive. 
Just  think  how  I  should  have  felt  if, 
when  I  gave  Bob  Cratchit  a  dig  in  the 
waistcoat  and  told  him  that  I  had 
raised  his  salary,  he  had  taken  the 
opportunity  to  ask  for  back  pay.  It 
would  have  been  most  inopportune." 

''  You  owed  it  to  him,  did  n't  you  ?  " 

''  Yes,  I  suppose  I  did,  if  you  choose 
to  put  it  that  way.  But  Bob  would  n't 
202 


€f)e  J^pitit  of  SDemottacp 

have  put  it  that  way ;  he  would  n't 
take  such  Hberties.  He  took  what  I 
gave  him ;  and  when  I  gave  him  more 
than  he  expected,  he  was  all  the  hap- 
pier, and  so  was  I.  That  's  what 
made  it  all  seem  so  nice  and  Christ- 
masy.  We  were  not  thinking  about 
rights  and  duties;  it  was  all  free 
grace.'' 

^'Now,  Scrooge,  you  are  getting  at 
the  point.  There  is  no  concealing  the 
fact  that  the  Spirit  of  Democracy 
makes  himself  unpleasant  sometimes. 
He  breaks  up  the  old  pleasant  rela- 
tions existing  not  only  between  the 
Lords  and  the  Commons,  but  between 
you  andBobCratchit.  Man  is  natur- 
ally a  superstitious  creature,  and  is 
prone  to  worship  the  first  thing  that 
comes  in  his  way.  When  a  poor  fel- 
203 


low  sees  a  person  who  is  better  off 
than  himself,  he  jumps  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  he  is  a  better  man,  and  bows 
down  before  him,  as  before  a  won- 
der-working Providence.  When  this 
Providence  smiles  upon  him,  he  is 
glad,  and  receives  the  bounty  with  de- 
vout thankfulness.  It  is  what  the  old 
theologians  used  to  call  'an  uncove- 
nanted  mercy.' 

"All  this  is  very  pleasant  to  one  who 
can  sign  himself  by  the  grace  of  God 
king,  or  president  of  a  coal  company, 
or  some  such  thing  as  that.  The  grati- 
fication extends  to  all  the  minor 
grades  of  greatness  as  well.  The  great 
man  is  ordained  to  give  as  it  pleases 
him  and  the  little  men  to  receive  with 
due  meekness.  The  great  man  is 
always  the  man  who  has  something. 
204 


€Ije  spirit  of  2Democtacp 

I  suppose,  Scrooge,  that  in  your  busy 
life,  first  scraping  money  together  and 
then  dispensing  it  in  your  joyous 
Christmasy  way,  you  have  not  had 
much  time  for  general  reading  or  even 
for  listening  to  sermons  ?  " 

"I  have  always  attended  Divine 
Service  since  my  conversion,"  an- 
swered Scrooge,  piously;  ''as  for 
listening  — '' 

''What  I  was  going  to  say  was  that 
if  you  had  attended  to  such  matters, 
you  must  have  noticed  how  much  of 
the  literature  of  good-will  is  devoted 
to  the  praise  of  the  Blessed  Inequali- 
ties. How  the  changes  are  rung  on 
the  Strong  and  the  Weak,  the  Wise 
and  the  Ignorant,  the  Rich  and  the 
Poor;  especially  the  Poor,  who  form 
the  hub  of  the  philanthropic  universe. 
205 


Nobody  seems  to  meet  another  on 
the  level.  Everybody  is  either  look- 
ing up  or  looking  down,  and  they  are 
taught  how  to  do  it.  I  remember 
attending  the  annual  meeting  of  the 
Society  for  the  Relief  of  Indigent 
Children.  The  indigent  children 
were  first  fed  and  then  insulted  by  a 
plethoric  gentleman,  who  addressed 
to  them  a  long  discourse  on  indigence 
and  the  various  duties  that  it  entailed. 
And  no  one  of  the  children  was  al- 
lowed to  throw  things  at  the  speaker. 
They  had  all  been  taught  to  look 
grateful. 

"Now  these  inequalities  do  exist, 
and  so  long  as  they  exist  all  sorts  of 
helpful  offices  have  place.  The  trouble 
is  that  good  people  are  all  the  time 
doing  their  best  to  make  the  inequali- 
206 


€l^e  spirit  of  2Democratp 

ties  permanent.  You  have  heard  how 
divines  have  interpreted  the  text, 
^The  poor  ye  have  always  with  you/ 
The  good  old  doctrine  has  been  that 
the  relation  between  those  who  have 
not  and  those  who  have  should  be 
that  of  one-sided  dependence.  The 
Ignorant  must  depend  upon  the  Wise, 
the  Weak  upon  the  Strong,  the  Poor 
upon  the  Rich.  As  for  the  black, 
yellow,  and  various  parti-colored 
races,  they  must  depend  upon  the 
White  Man,  who  gayly  walks  off  with 
their  burdens  without  so  much  as 
saying  *By  your  leave.' 

"Now  it  is  against  this  whole  the- 
ory, however  beautifully  or  piously 
expressed,  that  the  protest  has  come. 
The  Spirit  of  Democracy  is  a  bold 
iconoclast,  and  goes  about  smashing 
207 


CJ^rijortmaia^  anti 

our  idols.  He  laughs  at  the  preten«» 
sions  of  the  Strong  and  the  Wise  and 
the  Rich  to  have  created  the  things 
they  possess.  They  are  not  the  mas- 
ters of  the  feast.  They  are  only  those 
of  us  who  have  got  at  the  head  of  the 
line,  sometimes  by  unmannerly  push- 
ing, and  have  secured  a  place  at  the 
first  table.  We  are  not  here  by  their 
leave,  and  we  may  go  directly  to  the 
source  of  supplies.  They  are  not 
benefactors,  but  beneficiaries.  The 
Spirit  of  Democracy  insists  that  they 
shall  know  their  place.  He  rebukes 
even  the  Captains  of  Industry,  and 
when  they  answer  insolently,  he  sug- 
gests that  they  be  reduced  to  the  ranks. 
Even  toward  bishops  and  other  clergy 
his  manner  lacks  that  perfect  rever- 
ence that  belonged  to  an  earlier  time ; 
208 


€l^e  spirit  of  2Demoeratp 

yet  he  listens  to  them  respectfully 
when  they  talk  sense. 

"It  is  this  spirit  that  plays  the 
mischief  with  many  of  the  merry  old 
ways  of  doing  good.  To  scatter  tur- 
keys or  colleges  among  a  multitude 
of  gratefully  dependent  folks  is  the 
very  poetry  of  philanthropy.  But  to 
satisfy  the  curiosity  of  an  independent 
citizen  as  to  your  title  to  these  things 
is  a  different  matter.  The  more  in- 
dependent people  are,  the  harder  it 
is  to  do  good  to  them.  They  are  apt 
to  have  their  own  ideas  of  what  they 
want." 

"'It's  a  pity,  then,  to  have  them  so 
independent,"  said  Scrooge ;  "it  spoils 
people  to  get  above  their  proper 
station  in  life." 

"Ah!  there  you  are,"  I  answered; 
209 


"I  feared  it  would  come  to  that.  With 
all  your  exuberant  good-will  you 
have  n't  altogether  got  beyond  the 
theory  that  has  come  down  from  the 
time  when  the  first  cave-dweller  be- 
stowed on  his  neighbor  the  bone  he 
himself  did  n't  need,  and  established 
the  pleasant  relation  of  benefactor  and 
beneficiary.  It  gave  him  such  a  warm 
feeling  in  his  heart  that  he  naturally 
wanted  to  make  the  relation  perma- 
nent. First  Cave-dweller  felt  a  little 
disappointed  next  day  when  Second 
Cave-dweller,  instead  of  coming  to 
him  for  another  bone,  preferred  to 
take  his  pointed  stick  and  go  hunting 
on  his  own  account.  It  seemed  a  little 
ungrateful  in  him,  and  First  Cave- 
dweller  felt  that  it  would  be  no  more 
than  right  to  arrange  legislation  in  the 
210 


€l|e  spirit  of  2Democtacp 

cave  so  that  this  should  not  happen 
again. 

"Christian  Charity  is  a  very  beau- 
tiful thing,  but  sometimes  it  gets 
mixed  up  with  these  ideas  of  the  cave- 
dwellers.  Sometimes  it  perpetuates 
the  very  evils  that  it  laments.  Per- 
haps you  won't  mind  my  reading  a 
bit  from  a  homily  of  St.  Augustine  on 
this  very  subject.  St.  Augustine  was  a 
man  who  was  a  good  many  centuries 
ahead  of  his  time.  He  begins  his 
argument  by  saying:  'All  love,  dear 
brethren,  consists  in  wishing  well  to 
those  who  are  loved.'  This  seems  like 
a  harmless  proposition.  It  is  the  sort 
of  thing  you  might  hear  in  a  sermon 
and  think  no  more  about.  But  St. 
Augustine  goes  to  the  root  of  the  mat- 
ter, and  asks  what  it  means  to  wish 
211 


well  to  the  person  you  are  trying  to 
help.  He  comes  to  the  conclusion  that 
if  you  really  wish  him  well,  you  must 
wish  him  to  be  at  least  as  well  oflf  and 
as  well  able  to  take  care  of  himself 
as  you  are.  The  first  thing  you  know, 
you  are  wishing  to  have  him  reach  a 
point  where  he  will  not  look  up  to  you 
at  all.  'There  is  a  certain  friendli- 
ness by  which  we  desire  at  one  time 
or  another  to  do  good  to  those  we 
love.  But  how  if  there  be  no  good 
that  we  can  do?  We  ought  not  to 
wish  men  to  be  wretched  that  we  may 
be  enabled  to  practice  works  of  mercy. 
Thou  givest  bread  to  the  hungry,  but 
better  were  it  that  none  hungered  and 
thou  hadst  none  to  give  to.  Thou 
clothest  the  naked ;  oh,  that  all  men 
were  clothed  and  that  this  need 
212 


€l)e  spirit  of  SDemoctacp 

existed  not !  Take  away  the  wretched, 
and  the  works  of  mercy  will  be  at  an 
end,  but  shall  the  ardor  of  charity  be 
quenched?  With  a  truer  touch  of 
love  thou  lovest  the  happy  man  to 
whom  there  is  no  good  ofl&ce  that 
thou  canst  do ;  purer  will  that  love  be 
and  more  unalloyed.  For  if  thou  hast 
done  a  kindness  to  the  wretched,  per- 
haps thou  wishest  him  to  be  subject 
to  thee.  He  was  in  need,  thou  didst 
bestow;  thou  seemest  to  thyself 
greater  because  thou  didst  bestow 
than  he  upon  whom  it  was  bestowed. 
Wish  him  to  be  thine  equal.' 

"There,  Scrooge,  is  the  text  for  the 
little  Christmas  sermon  that  I  should 
like  to  preach  to  you  and  to  your 
elderly  wealthy  friends  who  feel  that 
they  are  not  so  warmly  appreciated 
213 


Cijris^tmas?  and 

as  they  once  were.  '  Wish  him  to  be 
thine  equal '  —  that  is  the  test  of 
charity.  It  is  all  right  to  give  a  poor 
devil  a  turkey.  But  are  you  anxious 
that  he  shall  have  as  good  a  chance 
as  you  have  to  buy  a  turkey  for  him- 
self? Are  you  really  enthusiastic 
about  so  equalizing  opportunities  that 
by  and  by  you  shall  be  surrounded 
by  happy,  self-reliant  people  who 
have  no  need  of  your  benefactions  ? 
"Do  you  know,  Scrooge,  I  some- 
times think  that  it  is  time  for  some 
one  to  write  a  new  '  Christmas  Carol,' 
a  carol  that  will  make  the  world  know 
how  people  are  feeling  and  some  of 
the  best  things  they  are  doing  in  these 
days.  It  should  be  founded  on  Jus- 
tice and  not  on  Mercy.  We  should 
feed  up  Bob  Cratchit  and  put  some 
214 


€|)e  spirit  of  2Democtacp 

courage  into  him,  and  he  should  come 
to  you  and  ask  a  Kving  wage  not  as  a 
favor,  but  as  a  right.  And  you, 
Scrooge,  would  not  be  offended  at  him, 
but  you  would  sit  down  like  a  sen- 
sible man  and  figure  it  out  with  him. 
And  when  the  talk  was  over,  you 
would  n't  feel  particularly  generous, 
and  he  would  n't  feel  particularly 
grateful ;  it  would  be  simple  business. 
But  you  would  like  each  other  better, 
and  the  business  would  seem  more 
worth  while. 

"And  then,  when  you  went  out  with 
the  Spirit  of  Christmas,  you  would  ask 
the  Spirit  of  Democracy  to  go  with 
you  and  show  you  the  new  things  that 
are  most  worth  seeing.  He  would  n't 
wait  for  the  night,  for  the  cheeriest 
things  would  be  those  that  go  on  dur- 
215 


ing  business  hours.  He  would  show 
you  some  sights  to  make  your  heart 
glad.  He  would  show  you  vast  num- 
bers of  persons  who  have  got  tired  of 
the  worship  of  the  Blessed  Inequali- 
ties, and  who  are  going  in  for  the 
Equalities.  They  have  a  suspicion 
that  there  is  not  so  much  difference 
between  the  Great  and  the  Small 
as  has  been  supposed,  and  that  what 
difference  there  is  does  not  prevent 
a  frank  comradeship  and  a  perfect 
understanding.  They  think  it  is  bet- 
ter to  work  with  people  than  to  work 
for  them.  They  think  that  one  of  the 
inalienable  rights  of  man  is  the  right 
to  make  his  own  mistakes  and  to  learn 
the  lesson  from  them  without  too 
much  prompting.  So  they  are  a  little 
shy  of  many  of  the  more  intrusive 
216 


€l)e  spirit  of  2Democracp 

forms  of  philanthropy.  But  you 
should  see  what  they  are  up  to. 

"The  Spirit  of  Democracy  will 
take  you  to  visit  a  school  that  is  not 
at  all  like  the  school  you  used  to  go 
to,  Scrooge.  The  teacher  has  for- 
gotten his  rod  and  his  rules  and  his 
airs  of  superiority.  He  is  not  teach- 
ing at  all,  so  far  as  you  can  see.  He  is 
the  centre  of  a  group  of  eager  learners, 
who  are  using  their  own  wits  and  not 
depending  on  his.  They  are  so  busy 
observing,  comparing,  reasoning,  and 
finding  out  things  for  themselves  that 
he  can  hardly  get  in  a  word  edgewise. 
And  he  seems  to  like  it,  though  it  is 
clear  that  if  they  keep  on  at  this  rate 
they  will  soon  get  ahead  of  their 
teacher. 

"And  the  Spirit  of  Democracy  will 
217 


take  you  to  a  children's  court,  where 
the  judge  does  not  seem  like  a  judge 
at  all,  but  like  a  big  brother  who  shows 
the  boys  what  they  ought  to  do  and 
sees  that  they  do  it.  He  will  take  you 
to  a  little  republic,  where  boys  and 
girls  who  have  defied  laws  that  they 
did  not  understand  are  making  laws 
of  their  own  and  enforcing  them  in  a 
way  that  makes  the  ordinary  citizen 
feel  ashamed  of  himself.  They  do  it 
all  so  naturally  that  you  wonder  that 
nobody  had  thought  of  the  plan  before. 
He  will  take  you  to  pleasant  houses  in 
unpleasant  parts  of  the  city,  and  there 
you  will  meet  pleasant  young  people 
who  are  having  a  very  good  time  with 
their  neighbors  and  who  are  getting 
to  be  rather  proud  of  their  neighbor- 
hood. After  you  have  had  a  cup  of 
218 


€t)e  spirit  of  2Democracp 

tea,  they  may  talk  over  with  you  the 
neighborhood  problems.  If  you  have 
any  sensible  suggestion  to  make,  these 
young  people  will  listen  to  you ;  but 
if  you  begin  to  talk  condescendingly 
about  the  Poor,  they  will  change  the 
subject.  They  are  not  philanthropists 
—  they  are  only  neighbors. 

''I  hope  he  may  take  you,  Scrooge 
— this  Spirit  of  Democracy — to  some 
of  the  charity  organizations  I  know 
about.  I  realize  that  you  are  pre- 
judiced against  that  sort  of  thing,  it 
seems  so  cold  and  calculating,  com- 
pared with  your  impulsive  way  of 
doing  good.  And  you  will  probably 
quote  the  lines  about 

Organized  charity  scrimped  and  iced 

In  the  name  of  a  cautious,  statistical  Christ. 

"Never  mind  about  the  statistics; 
219 


they  only  mean  that  these  people  are 
doing  business  on  a  larger  scale  than 
did  the  good  people  who  could  carry 
all  the  details  in  their  heads.  What  I 
want  you  to  notice  is  the  way  in  which 
the  scientific  interest  does  away  with 
that  patronizing  pity  that  was  the 
hardest  thing  to  bear  in  the  old-time 
charities.  These  modern  experts  go 
about  mending  broken  fortunes  in 
very  much  the  same  way  in  which 
surgeons  mend  broken  bones.  The 
patient  does  n't  feel  under  any  oppres- 
sive weight  of  obligation,  he  has  given 
them  such  a  good  opportunity  to  show 
their  skill.  And  the  doctors  have 
caught  the  spirit,  too.  Instead  of 
looking  wise  and  waiting  for  people 
to  come  to  them  in  the  last  extremity, 
they  have  enlisted  in  Social  Service. 
220 


€l)e  M>ifitit  of  SDemoctatp 

You  should  see  them  going  about 
opening  windows,  and  forcing  people 
to  poke  their  heads  out  into  the  night 
air,  and  making  landlords  miserable 
by  their  calculations  about  cubic  feet, 
and  investigating  sweat-shops  and 
analyzing  foodstuffs.  It 's  their  way  of 
bringing  in  a  Merry  Christmas. 

''And  the  Spirit  of  Democracy  will 
take  you  to  workshops,  where  you  may 
see  the  new  kind  of  Captain  of  In- 
dustry in  friendly  consultation  with 
the  new  kind  of  Labor  Leader.  For 
the  new  Captain  is  not  a  chief  of 
banditti,  interested  only  in  the  booty 
he  can  get  for  himself,  and  the  new 
Leader  is  not  a  conspirator  waiting 
for  a  chance  to  plunge  his  knife  into 
the  more  successful  bandit's  back. 
These  two  are  responsible  members 
221 


of  a  great  industrial  army,  and  they 
realize  their  responsibility.  They  have 
not  met  to  exchange  compliments. 
They  are  not  sentimentalists,  but 
shrewd  men  of  affairs  who  have  met 
to  plan  a  campaign  for  the  common 
welfare.  They  don't  take  any  credit 
for  it,  for  they  do  not  expect  to  give 
to  any  man  any  more  than  his  due; 
yet  there  are  a  good  many  Christmas 
dinners  involved  in  the  cool,  business- 
like consultation. 

''Afterward,  the  Spirit  of  Demo- 
cracy will  take  you  to  a  church  where 
the  minister  is  preaching  from  the 
text,  'Ye  are  all  kings  and  priests,' 
as  if  he  believed  it ;  and  you  will  be- 
lieve it  too,  and  go  on  your  way  won- 
dering at  the  many  sacred  oflSces  in 
the  world. 

222 


€||e  spirit  of  aDemoctacp 

"You  will  hurry  on  from  the  church 
to  shake  hands  with  the  new  kind  of 
politician.  He  is  not  the  dignified 
'  statesman '  you  have  read  about  and 
admired  afar  off,  who  has  every  quali- 
fication for  high  office  except  the  abil- 
ity to  get  himself  elected.  This  man 
knows  the  game  of  politics.  He  is  not 
fastidious,  and  likes  nothing  better 
than  to  be  in  the  thick  of  a  scrimmage. 
He  has  not  the  scholar's  scorn  of  '  the 
aggregate  mind.'  He  thinks  that  it 
is  a  very  good  kind  of  mind  if  it  is 
only  rightly  interpreted.  He  has  the 
idea  that  what  all  of  us  want  is  bet- 
ter than  what  some  few  of  us  want, 
and  that  when  all  of  us  make  up  our 
minds  to  work  together  we  can  get  what 
we  want  without  asking  anybody's 
leave.  He  thinks  that  what  all  of  us 
223 


want  is  fair  play,  and  so  he  goes 
straight  for  that  without  much  re- 
gard for  special  interests.  It  is  a 
simple  programme,  but  it's  wonder- 
ful what  a  difference  it  makes. 

"There  never  was  a  time,  Scrooge, 
when  the  message  of  good-will  was 
so  widely  interpreted  in  action,  or 
when  it  took  hold  of  so  many  kinds  of 
men.  Perhaps  you  would  n't  mind 
my  reading  another  little  bit  from 
St.  Augustine:  'Two  are  those  to 
whom  thou  doest  alms;  two  hunger, 
one  for  bread,  the  other  for  righteous- 
ness. Between  these  two  famishing 
persons  thou,  the  doer  of  the  good 
work,  art  set.  The  one  craves  what 
he  may  eat,  the  other  craves  what  he 
may  imitate.  Thou  feedest  the  one, 
give  thyself  as  a  pattern  to  the  other, 
224 


€l)e  spirit  of  2Demacracp 

so  hast  thou  given  to  both.  The  one 
thou  hast  caused  to  thank  thee  for 
satisfying  his  hunger,  the  other  thou 
hast  made  to  imitate  thee  by  setting 
him  a  worthy  example/ 

"It  is  this  hunger  for  simple  justice 
that  is  the  great  thing.  And  there  are 
people  who  are  giving  their  whole 
lives  to  satisfy  it.  What  we  need  is 
to  realize  what  it  all  means,  and  to 
get  that  joyous  thrill  over  it  that  came 
to  you  when  you  found  for  the  first 
time  that  life  consisted  not  in  getting, 
but  in  giving.  It's  a  wonderful  giv- 
ing, this  giving  of  one's  self,  and 
people  do  appreciate  it.  When  you 
have  ministered  to  a  person's  self- 
respect,  when  you  have  contributed 
to  his  self-reliance,  when  you  have 
inspired  him  to  self-help,  you  have 
225 


given  him  something.  And  you  are 
conscious  of  it,  and  so  is  he,  though 
you  both  find  it  hard  to  express  in  the 
old  terms.  All  the  old  Christmas 
cheer  is  in  these  reciprocities  of 
friendship  that  have  lost  every  touch 
of  condescension.  We  need  some 
genial  imagination  to  picture  to  us  all 
the  happiness  that  is  being  diffused 
by  people  who  have  come  to  look  upon 
themselves  not  as  God's  almoners, 
but  as  sharers  with  others  in  the  Com- 
mon Good.  I  wish  we  had  a  new 
Dickens  to  write  it  up." 

"If  you  are  waiting  for  that,  you 
will  wait  a  long  time,"  said  Scrooge. 

"Perhaps  so,  but  the  people  are 
here  all  the  same,  and  they  are  getting 
on  with  their  work." 


